LIBRARY 

UNIVERSITY  OF 

CALIFORNIA 
SANTA  CRUZ 


THE  TRAIL  OF  THE 
LONESOME   PINE 


BOOKS    BY  JOHN    FOX,   JR. 

PUBLISHED  BY  CHARLES  SCRIBNER'S  SONS 


THE     TRAIL     OF     THE     LONESOME     PINE. 
Illustrated $1.50 

A  KNIGHT  OF  THE  CUMBERLAND.  Illustrated.  $1.00 

FOLLOWING     THE     SUN-FLAG.      A    VAIN    PURSUIT 
THROUGH  MANCHURIA net,  $1.25 

CHRISTMAS    EVE    ON    LONESOME    AND    OTHER 
STORIES.     Illustrated $1.50 

THE    LITTLE    SHEPHERD    OF    KINGDOM    COME. 
Illustrated $1.50 

BLUEGRASS     AND     RHODODENDRON.      OUT-DOOR 
LIFE  IN  KENTUCKY.     Illustrated     ....     net,  $1.75 

CRITTENDEN.      A     KENTUCKY    STORY    OF    LOVE    AND 
WAR $,.25 

A   CUMBERLAND  VENDETTA.     Illustrated  .     .  $1.25 
HELL  FOR  SARTAIN  AND  OTHER  STORIES  .  $1.00 

THE   KENTUCKIANS.     Illustrated $1.25 

A  MOUNTAIN   EUROPA $,.25 


"Keep  it  safe,  old  Pine.  .  .  .  And  bless  him,  dear  God,  and  guard  him 
evermore." 


The  Trail  of  the 
Lonesome  Pine 


BY 
JOHN   FOX,  JR. 


Illustrated  by  F.  C.  Yohn 


CHARLES  SCRIBNER'S   SONS 
NEW  YORK  ::    ::   ::    ::    ::    1908 


COPYBIGHT,   1908,  BY 

CHARLES  SCRIBNER'S  SONS 


Published  October,  1908 


ps 

I70Z. 

77 
rf.Og 


F.  S. 


ILLUSTRATIONS 

"  Keep  it  safe,  old  Pine.  .  .  .  And  bless  him,  dear 

God,  and  guard  him  evermore  "  .     .     .     Frontispiece 


Facing 
page 


She  had  never  been  up  there  before 


"  Don't,  Dad  !  "  shrieked  a  voice  from  the  bushes. 

"  I  know  his  name  "     .........      14 

"You  hain't  never  go'in*   to  marry  him"     ....   220 

"June  !"  he  cried  in  amazement       ......   260 

"  Why  have  you  brought  me  here?  "      .....  318 

11  We'  II  fight  you  both!"      .........  344 

She  made  him  tell  of  everything  that  had  happened  416 


THE  TRAIL  OF  THE 
LONESOME   PINE 


i 

CHE  sat  at  the  base  of  the  big  tree — her  little 
sunbonnet  pushed  back,  her  arms  locked 
about  her  knees,  her  bare  feet  gathered  under  her 
crimson  gown  and  her  deep  eyes  fixed  on  the 
smoke  in  the  valley  below.  Her  breath  was  still 
coming  fast  between  her  parted  lips.  There  were 
tiny  drops  along  the  roots  of  her  shining  hair,  for  the 
climb  had  been  steep,  and  now  the  shadow  of  dis 
appointment  darkened  her  eyes.  The  mountains 
ran  in  limitless  blue  waves  towards  the  mounting 
sun — but  at  birth  her  eyes  had  opened  on  them  as 
on  the  white  mists  trailing  up  the  steeps  below 
her.  Beyond  them  was  a  gap  in  the  next  moun 
tain  chain  and  down  in  the  little  valley,  just  visible 
through  it,  were  trailing  blue  mists  as  well,  and  she 
knew  that  they  were  smoke.  Where  was  the  great 
glare  of  yellow  light  that  the  "circuit  rider"  had 
told  about — and  the  leaping  tongues  of  fire  ? 
Where  was  the  shrieking  monster  that  ran  without 


THE  TRAIL  OF  THE  LONESOME  PINE 

horses  like  the  wind  and  tossed  back  rolling  black 
plumes  all  streaked  with  fire  ?  For  many  days  now 
she  had  heard  stories  of  the  "furriners"  who  had 
come  into  those  hills  and  were  doing  strange  things 
down  there,  and  so  at  last  she  had  climbed  up 
through  the  dewy  morning  from  the  cove  on  the 
other  side  to  see  the  wonders  for  herself.  She  had 
never  been  up  there  before.  She  had  no  business 
there  now,  and,  if  she  were  found  out  when  she 
got  back,  she  would  get  a  scolding  and  maybe 
something  worse  from  her  step-mother — and  all 
that  trouble  and  risk  for  nothing  but  smoke.  So, 
she  lay  back  and  rested — her  little  mouth  tighten 
ing  fiercely.  It  was  a  big  world,  though,  that  was 
spread  before  her  and  a  vague  awe  of  it  seized  her 
straightway  and  held  her  motionless  and  dreaming. 
Beyond  those  white  mists  trailing  up  the  hills, 
beyond  the  blue  smoke  drifting  in  the  valley,  those 
limitless  blue  waves  must  run  under  the  sun  on 
and  on  to  the  end  of  the  world !  Her  dead  sister 
had  gone  into  that  far  silence  and  had  brought 
back  wonderful  stories  of  that  outer  world:  and 
she  began  to  wonder  more  than  ever  before  whether 
she  would  ever  go  into  it  and  see  for  herself  what 
was  there.  With  the  thought,  she  rose  slowly  to 
her  feet,  moved  slowly  to  the  cliff  that  dropped 
sheer  ten  feet  aside  from  the  trail,  and  stood  there 
like  a  great  scarlet  flower  in  still  air.  There  was 
the  way  at  her  feet — that  path  that  coiled  under 
the  cliff  and  ran  down  loop  by  loop  through  ma- 

2 


THE  TRAIL  OF  THE  LONESOME  PINE 

jestic  oak  and  poplar  and  masses  of  rhododendron. 
She  drew  a  long  breath  and  stirred  uneasily — she'd 
better  go  home  now — but  the  path  had  a  snake- 
like  charm  for  her  and  still  she  stood,  following  it 
as  far  down  as  she  could  with  her  eyes.  Down  it 
went,  writhing  this  way  and  that  to  a  spur  that 
had  been  swept  bare  by  forest  fires.  Along  this 
spur  it  travelled  straight  for  a  while  and,  as  her 
eyes  eagerly  followed  it  to  where  it  sank  sharply 
into  a  covert  of  maples,  the  little  creature  dropped 
of  a  sudden  to  the  ground  and,  like  something  wild, 
lay  flat. 

A  human  figure  had  filled  the  leafy  mouth  that 
swallowed  up  the  trail  and  it  was  coming  towards 
her.  With  a  thumping  heart  she  pushed  slowly 
forward  through  the  brush  until  her  face,  fox-like 
with  cunning  and  screened  by  a  blueberry  bush, 
hung  just  over  the  edge  of  the  clifF,  and  there  she 
lay,  like  a  crouched  panther-cub,  looking  down. 
For  a  moment,  all  that  was  human  seemed  gone 
from  her  eyes,  but,  as  she  watched,  all  that  was 
lost  came  back  to  them,  and  something  more. 
She  had  seen  that  it  was  a  man,  but  she  had 
dropped  so  quickly  that  she  did  not  see  the  big, 
black  horse  that,  unled,  was  following  him.  Now 
both  man  and  horse  had  stopped.  The  stranger 
had  taken  off  his  gray  slouched  hat  and  he  was 
wiping  his  face  with  something  white.  Something 
blue  was  tied  loosely  about  his  throat.  She  had 
never  seen  a  man  like  that  before.  His  face  was 


THE  TRAIL  OF  THE  LONESOME  PIXE 

smooth  and  looked  different,  as  did  his  throat  and 
his  hands.  His  breeches  were  tight  and  on  his  feet 
were  strange  boots  that  were  the  colour  of  his 
saddle,  which  was  deep  in  seat,  high  both  in  front 
and  behind  and  had  strange  long-hooded  stirrups. 
Starting  to  mount,  the  man  stopped  with  one  foot 
in  the  stirrup  and  raised  his  eyes  towards  her  so 
suddenly  that  she  shrank  back  again  with  a  quicker 
throbbing  atherheart  and  pressed  closer  to  the  earth. 
Still,  seen  or  not  sgen,  flight  was  easy  for  her,  so 
she  could  not  forbear  to  look  again.  Apparently, 
he  had  seen  nothing — only  that  the  next  turn  of 
the  trail  was  too  steep  to  ride,  and  so  he  started 
walking  again,  and  his  walk,  as  he  strode  along  the 
path,  was  new  to  her,  as  was  the  erect  way  with 
which  he  held  his  head  and  his  shoulders. 

In  her  wonder  over  him,  she  almost  forgot  her 
self,  forgot  to  wonder  where  he  was  going  and  why 
he  was  coming  into  those  lonely  hills  until,  as  his 
horse  turned  a  bend  of  the  trail,  she  saw  hanging 
from  the  other  side  of  the  saddle  something  that 
looked  like  a  gun.  He  was  a  "raider" — that  man: 
so,  cautiously  and  swiftly  then,  she  pushed  herself 
back  from  the  edge  of  the  clifF,  sprang  to  her  feet, 
dashed  past  the  big  tree  and,  winged  with  fear, 
sped  down  the  mountain — leaving  in  a  spot  of  sun 
light  at  the  base  of  the  pine  the  print  of  one  bare 
foot  in  the  black  earth. 


II 

T  TK  had  seen  the  big  pine  when  he  first  came 
to  those  hills — one  morning,  at  daybreak, 
when  the  valley  was  a  sea  of  mist  that  threw  soft 
clinging  spray  to  the  very  mountain  tops:  for  even 
above  the  mists,  that  morning,  its  mighty  head 
arose — sole  visible  proof  that  the  earth  still  slept 
beneath.  Straightway,  he  wondered  how  it  had 
ever  got  there,  so  far  above  the  few  of  its  kind  that 
haunted  the  green  dark  ravines  far  below.  Some 
whirlwind,  doubtless,  had  sent  a  tiny  cone  circling 
heavenward  and  dropped  it  there.  It  had  sent 
others,  too,  no  doubt,  but  how  had  this  tree  faced 
wind  and  storm  alone  and  alone  lived  to  defy  both 
so  proudly  ?  Some  day  he  would  learn.  There 
after,  he  had  seen  it,  at  noon — but  little  less  ma 
jestic  among  the  oaks  that  stood  about  it;  had  seen 
it  catching  the  last  light  at  sunset,  clean-cut  against 
the  after-glow,  and  like  a  dark,  silent,  mysterious 
sentinel  guarding  the  mountain  pass  under  the 
moon.  He  had  seen  it  giving  place  with  sombre 
dignity  to  the  passing  burst  of  spring — had  seen 
it  green  among  dying  autumn  leaves,  green  in  the 
gray  of  winter  trees  and  still  green  in  a  shroud  of 
snow — a  changeless  promise  that  the  earth  must 

5 


THE  TRAIL  OF  THE  LONESOME  PINE 

wake  to  life  again.  The  Lonesome  Pine,  the 
mountaineers  called  it,  and  the  Lonesome  Pine  it 
always  looked  to  be.  From  the  beginning  it  had 
a  curious  fascination  for  him,  and  straightway 
within  him — half  exile  that  he  was — there  sprang 
up  a  sympathy  for  it  as  for  something  that  was  hu 
man  and  a  brother.  And  now  he  was  on  the  trail 
of  it  at  last.  From  every  point  that  morning  it  had 
seemed  almost  to  nod  down  to  him  as  he  climbed 
and,  when  he  reached  the  ledge  that  gave  him  sight 
of  it  from  base  to  crown,  the  winds  murmured 
among  its  needles  like  a  welcoming  voice.  At  once, 
he  saw  the  secret  of  its  life.  On  each  side  rose  a 
cliff  that  had  sheltered  it  from  storms  until  its 
trunk  had  shot  upwards  so  far  and  so  straight  and 
so  strong  that  its  green  crown  could  lift  itself  on 
and  on  and  bend — blow  what  might — as  proudly 
and  securely  as  a  lily  on  its  stalk  in  a  morning 
breeze.  Dropping  his  bridle  rein  he  put  one  hand 
against  it  as  though  on  the  shoulder  of  a  friend. 

"Old  Man,"  he  said,  "You  must  be  pretty 
lonesome  up  here,  and  I'm  glad  to  meet  you." 

For  a  while  he  sat  against  it — resting.  He  had 
no  particular  purpose  that  day — no  particular 
destination.  His  saddle-bags  were  across  the 
cantle  of  his  cow-boy  saddle.  His  fishing  rod  was 
tied  under  one  flap.  He  was  young  and  his  own 
master.  Time  was  hanging  heavy  on  his  hands 
that  day  and  he  loved  the  woods  and  the  nooks 
and  crannies  of  them  where  his  own  kind  rarely 

6 


She  had  never  been  up  there  before. 


THE  TRAIL  OF  THE  LONESOME  PINE 

made  its  way.  Beyond,  the  cove  looked  dark,  for 
bidding,  mysterious,  and  what  was  beyond  he  did 
not  know.  So  down  there  he  would  go.  As  he 
bent  his  head  forward  to  rise,  his  eye  caught  the 
spot  of  sunlight,  and  he  leaned  over  it  with  a  smile. 
In  the  black  earth  was  a  human  foot-print — too 
small  and  slender  for  the  foot  of  a  man,  a  boy  or 
a  woman.  Beyond,  the  same  prints  were  visible — 
wider  apart — and  he  smiled  again.  A  girl  had  been 
there.  She  was  the  crimson  flash  that  he  saw  as 
he  started  up  the  steep  and  mistook  for  a  flaming 
bush  of  sumach.  She  had  seen  him  coming  and 
she  had  fled.  Still  smiling,  he  rose  to  his  feet. 


Ill 

one  side  he  had  left  the  earth  yellow  with 
the  coming  noon,  but  it  was  still  morning  as 
he  went  down  on  the  other  side.  The  laurel  and 
rhododendron  still  reeked  with  dew  in  the  deep, 
ever-shaded  ravine.  The  ferns  drenched  his  stir 
rups,  as  he  brushed  through  them,  and  each  drip 
ping  tree-top  broke  the  sunlight  and  let  it  drop  in 
tent-like  beams  through  the  shimmering  under- 
mist.  A  bird  flashed  here  and  there  through  the 
green  gloom,  but  there  was  no  sound  in  the  air  but 
the  footfalls  of  his  horse  and  the  easy  creaking  of 
leather  under  him,  the  drip  of  dew  overhead  and 
the  running  of  water  below.  Now  and  then  he 
could  see  the  same  slender  foot-prints  in  the  rich 
loam  and  he  saw  them  in  the  sand  where  the  first 
tiny  brook  tinkled  across  the  path  from  a  gloomy 
ravine.  There  the  little  creature  had  taken  a  fly 
ing  leap  across  it  and,  beyond,  he  could  see  the 
prints  no  more.  He  little  guessed  that  while  he 
halted  to  let  his  horse  drink,  the  girl  lay  on  a  rock 
above  him,  looking  down.  She  was  nearer  home 
now  and  was  less  afraid;  so  she  had  slipped  from 
the  trail  and  climbed  above  it  there  to  watch  him 
pass.  As  he  went  on,  she  slid  from  her  perch  and 

8 


THE  TRAIL  OF  THE  LONESOME  PINE 

with  cat-footed  quiet  followed  him.  When  he 
reached  the  river  she  saw  him  pull  in  his  horse  and 
eagerly  bend  forward,  looking  into  a  pool  just 
below  the  crossing.  There  was  a  bass  down  there 
in  the  clear  water — a  big  one — and  the  man  whis 
tled  cheerily  and  dismounted,  tying  his  horse  to  a 
sassafras  bush  and  unbuckling  a  tin  bucket  and 
a  curious  looking  net  from  his  saddle.  With  the 
net  in  one  hand  and  the  bucket  in  the  other,  he 
turned  back  up  the  creek  and  passed  so  close  to 
where  she  had  slipped  aside  into  the  bushes  that 
she  came  near  shrieking,  but  his  eyes  were  fixed 
on  a  pool  of  the  creek  above  and,  to  her  wonder,  he 
strolled  straight  into  the  water,  with  his  boots  on, 
pushing  the  net  in  front  of  him. 

He  was  a  "raider"  sure,  she  thought  now,  and 
he  was  looking  for  a  "moonshine"  still,  and  the 
wild  little  thing  in  the  bushes  smiled  cunningly — 
there  was  no  still  up  that  creek — and  as  he  had 
left  his  horse  below  and  his  gun,  she  waited  for 
him  to  come  back,  which  he  did,  by  and  by,  drip 
ping  and  soaked  to  his  knees.  Then  she  saw  him 
untie  the  queer  "gun"  on  his  saddle,  pull  it  out  of 
a  case  and — her  eyes  got  big  with  wonder — take  it 
to  pieces  and  make  it  into  a  long  limber  rod.  In 
a  moment  he  had  cast  a  minnow  into  the  pool  and 
waded  out  into  the  water  up  to  his  hips.  She  had 
never  seen  so  queer  a  fishing-pole — so  queer  a  fish 
erman.  How  could  he  get  a  fish  out  with  that  little 
switch,  she  thought  contemptuously  ?  By  and  by 

9 


THE  TRAIL  OF  THE  LONESOME  PINE 

something  hummed  queerly,  the  man  gave  a  slight 
jerk  and  a  shining  fish  flopped  two  feet  into  the 
air.  It  was  surely  very  queer,  for  the  man  didn't 
put  his  rod  over  his  shoulder  and  walk  ashore,  as 
did  the  mountaineers,  but  stood  still,  winding 
something  with  one  hand,  and  again  the  fish  would 
flash  into  the  air  and  then  that  humming  would 
start  again  while  the  fisherman  would  stand  quiet 
and  waiting  for  a  while — and  then  he  would  begin 
to  wind  again.  In  her  wonder,  she  rose  uncon 
sciously  to  her  feet  and  a  stone  rolled  down  to  the 
ledge  below  her.  The  fisherman  turned  his  head 
and  she  started  to  run,  but  without  a  word  he 
turned  again  to  the  fish  he  was  playing.  More 
over,  he  was  too  far  out  in  the  water  to  catch  her, 
so  she  advanced  slowly — even  to  the  edge  of  the 
stream,  watching  the  fish  cut  half  circles  about  the 
man.  If  he  saw  her,  he  gave  no  notice,  and  it  was 
well  that  he  did  not.  He  was  pulling  the  bass  to 
and  fro  now  through  the  water,  tiring  him  out- 
drowning  him — stepping  backward  at  the  same 
time,  and,  a  moment  later,  the  fish  slid  easily  out 
of  the  edge  of  the  water,  gasping  along  the  edge  of 
a  low  sand-bank,  and  the  fisherman  reaching  down 
with  one  hand  caught  him  in  the  gills.  Then  he 
looked  up  and  smiled — and  she  had  seen  no  smile 
like  that  before. 

"Howdye,   Little  Girl?" 

One  bare  toe  went  burrowing  suddenly  into  the 
sand,  one  finger  went  to  her  red  mouth — and  that 

10 


THE  TRAIL  OF  THE  LONESOME  PINE 

was  all.    She  merely  stared  him  straight  in  the  eye 
and  he  smiled  again. 

"Cat  got  your  tongue  ?" 

Her  eyes  fell  at  the  ancient  banter,  but  she 
lifted  them  straightway  and  stared  again. 

"You  live  around  here  ?" 

She  stared  on. 

"Where?" 

No  answer. 

"What's  your  name,  little  girl  ?" 

And  still  she  stared. 

"Oh,  well,  of  course,  you  can't  talk,  if  the  cat's 
got  your  tongue." 

The  steady  eyes  leaped  angrily,  but  there  was 
still  no  answer,  and  he  bent  to  take  the  fish  off  his 
hook,  put  on  a  fresh  minnow,  turned  his  back  and 
tossed  it  into  the  pool. 

"Hit  hain't!" 

He  looked  up  again.  She  surely  was  a  pretty 
little  thing — and  more,  now  that  she  was  angry. 

"I  should  say  not,"  he  said  teasingly.  "What 
did  you  say  your  name  was  ?" 

" What's  yo'  name?" 

The  fisherman  laughed.  He  was  just  becoming 
accustomed  to  the  mountain  etiquette  that  com 
mands  a  stranger  to  divulge  himself  first. 

"My  name's— Jack." 

"An'  mine's — Jill."  She  laughed  now,  and  it 
was  his  time  for  surprise — where  could  she  have 
heard  of  Jack  and  Jill  ? 

II 


THE  TRAIL  OF  THE  LONESOME  PINE 

His  line  rang  suddenly. 

"Jack,"  she  cried,  "you  got  a  bite!" 

He  pulled,  missed  the  strike,  and  wound  in. 
The  minnow  was  all  right,  so  he  tossed  it  back 
again. 

"That  isn't  your  name,"  he  said. 

"If  'tain't,  then  that  ain't  your'n  ?" 

"Yes  'tis,"  he  said,  shaking  his  head  affirma 
tively. 

A  long  cry  came  down  the  ravine: 

"J-u-n-e!  eh — oh — J-u-n-e!"  That  was  a 
queer  name  for  the  mountains,  and  the  fisherman 
wondered  if  he  had  heard  aright — June. 

The  little  girl  gave  a  shrill  answering  cry,  but 
she  did  not  move. 

"Thar  now!"  she  said. 

"Who's  that — your  Mammy?" 

"  No,  'tain't — hit's  my  step-mammy.  I'm  a  goin' 
to  ketch  hell  now."  Her  innocent  eyes  turned 
sullen  and  her  baby  mouth  tightened. 

"Good  Lord!"  said  the  fisherman,  startled,  and 
then  he  stopped — the  words  were  as  innocent  on 
her  lips  as  a  benediction. 

"Have  you  got  a  father?"  Like  a  flash,  her 
whole  face  changed. 

"I  reckon  I  have." 

"Where  is  he?" 

"Hyeh  he  is!"  drawled  a  voice  from  the  bushes, 
and  it  had  a  tone  that  made  the  fisherman  whirl 
suddenly.  A  giant  mountaineer  stood  on  the 

12 


THE  TRAIL  OF  THE  LONESOME  PINE 

bank  above  him,  with  a  Winchester  in  the  hollow 
of  his  arm. 

"How  are  you  ?"  The  giant's  heavy  eyes  lifted 
quickly,  but  he  spoke  to  the  girl. 

"You  go  on  home — what  you  doin'  hyeh  gassin' 
with  furriners!" 

The  girl  shrank  to  the  bushes,  but  she  cried 
sharply  back: 

"  Don't  you  hurt  him  now,  Dad.  He  ain't  even 
got  a  pistol.  He  ain't  no " 

"  Shet  up ! "  The  little  creature  vanished  and  the 
mountaineer  turned  to  the  fisherman,  who  had  just 
put  on  a  fresh  minnow  and  tossed  it  into  the  river. 

"Purty  well,  thank  you,"  he  said  shortly. 
"How  are  you  ?" 

"Fine!"  was  the  nonchalant  answer.  For  a 
moment  there  was  silence  and  a  puzzled  frown 
gathered  on  the  mountaineer's  face. 

"That's  a  bright  little  girl  of  yours —  What  did 
she  mean  by  telling  you  not  to  hurt  me  ?" 

"You  haven't  been  long  in  these  mountains, 
have  ye?" 

"No — not  in  these  mountains — why?"  The 
fisherman  looked  around  and  was  almost  startled 
by  the  fierce  gaze  of  his  questioner. 

"  Stop  that,  please,"  he  said,  with  a  humourous 
smile.  "You  make  me  nervous." 

The  mountaineer's  bushy  brows  came  together 
across  the  bridge  of  his  nose  and  his  voice  rumbled 
like  distant  thunder. 

13 


THE  TRAIL  OF  THE  LONESOME  PINE 

"What's  yo'  name,  stranger,  an'  what's  yo' 
business  over  hyeh  ?" 

"Dear  me,  there  you  go!  You  can  see  I'm 
fishing,  but  why  does  everybody  in  these  moun 
tains  want  to  know  my  name  ?" 

"You  heerd  me!"  ' 

"Yes."  The  fisherman  turned  again  and  saw 
the  giant's  rugged  face  stern  and  pale  with  open 
anger  now,  and  he,  too,  grew  suddenly  serious. 

"Suppose  I  don't  tell  you,"  he  said  gravely. 
"What " 

"Git!"  said  the  mountaineer,  with  a  move  of 
one  huge  hairy  hand  up  the  mountain.  "An'  git 
quick!" 

The  fisherman  never  moved  and  there  was  the 
click  of  a  shell  thrown  into  place  in  the  Winches 
ter  and  a  guttural  oath  from  the  mountaineer's 
beard. 

"Damn  ye,"  he  said  hoarsely,  raising  the  rifle. 
"I'll  give  ye- 

" Don't,  Dad!"  shrieked  a  voice  from  the 

bushes.  "I  know  his  name,  hit's  Jack "  the 

rest  of  the  name  was  unintelligible.  The  moun 
taineer  dropped  the  butt  of  his  gun  to  the  ground 
and  laughed. 

"Oh,  air  you  the  engineer  ?" 

The  fisherman  was  angry  now.  He  had  not 
moved  hand  or  foot  and  he  said  nothing,  but  his 
mouth  was  set  hard  and  his  bewildered  blue  eyes 
had  a  glint  in  them  that  the  mountaineer  did  not 

H 


THE  TRAIL  OF  THE  LONESOME  PINE 

at  the  moment  see.  He  was  leaning  with  one  arm 
on  the  muzzle  of  his  Winchester,  his  face  had 
suddenly  become  suave  and  shrewd  and  now  he 
laughed  again: 

"So  you're  Jack  Hale,  air  ye?" 

The  fisherman  spoke.  "John  Hale,  except  to 
my  friends."  He  looked  hard  at  the  old  man. 

"Do  you  know  that's  a  pretty  dangerous  joke 
of  yours,  my  friend — I  might  have  a  gun  myself 
sometimes.  Did  you  think  you  could  scare  me  ?" 
The  mountaineer  stared  in  genuine  surprise. 

"Twusn't  no  joke,"  he  said  shortly.  "An'  I 
don't  waste  time  skeering  folks.  I  reckon  you 
don't  know  who  I  be  ?" 

"I  don't  care  who  you  are."  Again  the  moun 
taineer  stared. 

"No  use  gittin'  mad,  young  feller,"  he  said 
coolly.  "I  mistaken  ye  fer  somebody  else  an'  I 
axe  yer  pardon.  When  you  git  through  fishin' 
come  up  to  the  house  right  up  the  creek  thar  an* 
I'll  give  ye  a  dram." 

"Thank  you,"  said  the  fisherman  stiffly,  and 
the  mountaineer  turned  silently  away.  At  the 
edge  of  the  bushes,  he  looked  back;  the  stranger 
was  still  fishing,  and  the  old  man  went  on  with  a 
shake  of  his  head. 

"He'll  come,"  he  said  to  himself.  "Oh,  he'll 
come!" 

That  very  point  Hale  was  debating  with  himself 
as  he  unavailingly  cast  his  minnow  into  the  swift 

15 


THE  TRAIL  OF  THE  LONESOME  PINE 

water  and  slowly  wound  it  in  again.  How  did  that 
old  man  know  his  name  ?  And  would  the  old  sav 
age  really  have  hurt  him  had  he  not  found  out  who 
he  was?  The  little  girl  was  a  wonder:  evidently 
she  had  muffled  his  last  name  on  purpose — not 
knowing  it  herself — and  it  was  a  quick  and  cun 
ning  ruse.  He  owed  her  something  for  that — why 
did  she  try  to  protect  him  ?  Wonderful  eyes,  too, 
the  little  thing  had — deep  and  dark — and  how  the 
flame  did  dart  from  them  when  she  got  angry! 
He  smiled,  remembering — he  liked  that.  And 
her  hair — it  was  exactly  like  the  gold-bronze  on 
the  wing  of  a  wild  turkey  that  he  had  shot  the  day 
before.  Well,  it  was  noon  now,  the  fish  had 
stopped  biting  after  the  wayward  fashion  of  bass, 
he  was  hungry  and  thirsty  and  he  would  go  up 
and  see  the  little  girl  and  the  giant  again  and  get 
that  promised  dram.  Once  more,  however,  he  let 
his  minnow  float  down  into  the  shadow  of  a  big 
rock,  and  while  he  was  winding  in,  he  looked  up 
to  see  in  the  road  two  people  on  a  gray  horse,  a 
man  with  a  woman  behind  him — both  old  and 
spectacled — all  three  motionless  on  the  bank  and 
looking  at  him:  and  he  wondered  if  all  three  had 
stopped  to  ask  his  name  and  his  business.  No, 
they  had  just  come  down  to  the  creek  and  both 
they  must  know  already. 

"Ketching  any?"  called  out  the  old  man, 
cheerily. 

"Only  one,"  answered  Hale  with  equal  cheer. 
16 


Don't,  Dad!"  shrieked  a  voice  from  the  bushes.    "I  know  his  name." 


THE  TRAIL  OF  THE  LONESOME  PINE 

The  old  woman  pushed  back  her  bonnet  as  he 
waded  through  the  water  towards  them  and  he  saw 
that  she  was  puffing  a  clay  pipe.  She  looked  at 
the  fisherman  and  his  tackle  with  the  naive  won 
der  of  a  child,  and  then  she  said  in  a  commanding 
undertone. 

"Goon,  Billy." 

"Now,  ole  Hon,  I  wish  ye'd  jes'  wait  a  minute." 
Hale  smiled.  He  loved  old  people,  and  two  kinder 
faces  he  had  never  seen — two  gentler  voices  he 
had  never  heard. 

"I  reckon  you  got  the  only  green  pyerch  up 
hyeh,"  said  the  old  man,  chuckling,  "but  thar's 
a  sight  of  'em  down  thar  below  my  old  mill." 
Quietly  the  old  woman  hit  the  horse  with  a  stripped 
branch  of  elm  and  the  old  gray,  with  a  switch  of 
his  tail,  started. 

"Wait  a  minute,  Hon,"  he  said  again,  appeal- 
ingly,  "won't  ye?"  but  calmly  she  hit  the  horse 
again  and  the  old  man  called  back  over  his  shoul 
der: 

"You  come  on  down  to  the  mill  an'  I'll  show  ye 
whar  you  can  ketch  a  mess." 

"All  right,"  shouted  Hale,  holding  back  his 
laughter,  and  on  they  went,  the  old  man  remon 
strating  in  the  kindliest  way — the  old  woman 
silently  puffing  her  pipe  and  making  no  answer 
except  to  flay  gently  the  rump  of  the  lazy  old  gray. 

Hesitating  hardly  a  moment,  Hale  unjointed 
his  pole,  left  his  minnow  bucket  where  it  was, 

17 


THE  TRAIL  OF  THE  LONESOME  PINE 

mounted  his  horse  and  rode  up  the  path.  About 
him,  the  beech  leaves  gave  back  the  gold  of  the 
autumn  sunlight,  and  a  little  ravine,  high  under 
the  crest  of  the  mottled  mountain,  was  on  fire  with 
the  scarlet  of  maple.  Not  even  yet  had  the  morn 
ing  chill  left  the  densely  shaded  path.  When  he 
got  to  the  bare  crest  of  a  little  rise,  he  could  see  up 
the  creek  a  spiral  of  blue  rising  swiftly  from  a 
stone  chimney.  Geese  and  ducks  were  hunting 
crawfish  in  the  little  creek  that  ran  from  a  milk- 
house  of  logs,  half  hidden  by  willows  at  the  edge 
of  the  forest,  and  a  turn  in  the  path  brought  into 
view  a  log-cabin  well  chinked  with  stones  and 
plaster,  and  with  a  well-built  porch.  A  fence  ran 
around  the  yard  and  there  was  a  meat  house  near 
a  little  orchard  of  apple-trees,  under  which  were 
many  hives  of  bee-gums.  This  man  had  things 
"hung  up"  and  was  well-to-do.  Down  the  rise 
and  through  a  thicket  he  went,  and  as  he  ap 
proached  the  creek  that  came  down  past  the  cabin 
there  was  a  shrill  cry  ahead  of  him. 

"Whoa  thar,  Buck!  Gee-haw,  I  tell  ye!"  An 
ox-wagon  evidently  was  coming  on,  and  the  road 
was  so  narrow  that  he  turned  his  horse  into  the 
bushes  to  let  it  pass. 

"Whoa— Haw!— Gee— Gee— Buck,  Gee,  I  tell 
ye!  I'll  knock  yo*  fool  head  off  the  fust  thing  you 
know!" 

Still  there  was  no  sound  of  ox  or  wagon  and  the 
voice  sounded  like  a  child's.  So  he  went  on  at  a 

18 


THE  TRAIL  OF  THE  LONESOME  PINE 

walk  in  the  thick  sand,  and  when  he  turned  the 
bushes  he  pulled  up  again  with  a  low  laugh.  In 
the  road  across  the  creek  was  a  chubby,  tow- 
haired  boy  with  a  long  switch  in  his  right  hand, 
and  a  pine  dagger  and  a  string  in  his  left.  At 
tached  to  the  string  and  tied  by  one  hind  leg  was 
a  frog.  The  boy  was  using  the  switch  as  a  goad 
and  driving  the  frog  as  an  ox,  and  he  was  as  earnest 
as  though  both  were  real. 

"I  give  ye  a  little  rest  now,  Buck,'*  he  said, 
shaking  his  head  earnestly.  "Hit's  a  purty  hard 
pull  hyeh,  but  I  know,  by  Gum,  you  can  make  hit 
— if  you  hain't  too  durn  lazy.  Now,  git  up, 
Buck!"  he  yelled  suddenly,  flaying  the  sand  with 
his  switch.  "Git  up — Whoa — Haw — Gee,  Gee!" 
The  frog  hopped  several  times. 

"Whoa,  now!"  said  the  little  fellow,  panting  in 
sympathy.  "I  knowed  you  could  do  it."  Then 
he  looked  up.  For  an  instant  he  seemed  terrified 
but  he  did  not  run.  Instead  he  stealthily  shifted 
the  pine  dagger  over  to  his  right  hand  and  the 
string  to  his  left. 

"Here,  boy,"  said  the  fisherman  with  affected 
sternness:  "What  are  you  doing  with  that  dag- 
ger?" 

The  boy's  breast  heaved  and  his  dirty  fingers 
clenched  tight  around  the  whittled  stick. 

"Don't  you  talk  to  me  that-a-way,"  he  said  with 
an  ominous  shake  of  his  head.  "I'll  gut  ye!" 

The  fisherman  threw  back  his  head,  and  his 


THE  TRAIL  OF  THE  LONESOME  PINE 

peal  of  laughter  did  what  his  sternness  failed  to 
do.  The  little  fellow  wheeled  suddenly,  and  his 
feet  spurned  the  sand  around  the  bushes  for  home 
— the  astonished  frog  dragged  bumping  after  him. 
"Well!  "said  the  fisherman. 


20 


IV 


Tj^VEN  the  geese  in  the  creek  seemed  to  know 
*"*  that  he  was  a  stranger  and  to  distrust  him, 
for  they  cackled  and,  spreading  their  wings,  fled 
cackling  up  the  stream.  As  he  neared  the  house, 
the  little  girl  ran  around  the  stone  chimney,  stopped 
short,  shaded  her  eyes  with  one  hand  for  a  mo 
ment  and  ran  excitedly  into  the  house.  A  moment 
later,  the  bearded  giant  slouched  out,  stooping  his 
head  as  he  came  through  the  door. 

"  Hitch  that  'ar  post  to  yo'  hoss  and  come  right 
in,"  he  thundered  cheerily.  "I'm  waitin'  fer  ye." 

The  little  girl  came  to  the  door,  pushed  one 
brown  slender  hand  through  her  tangled  hair, 
caught  one  bare  foot  behind  a  deer-like  ankle  and 
stood  motionless.  Behind  her  was  the  boy — his 
dagger  still  in  hand. 

"Come  right  in!"  said  the  old  man,  "we  are 
purty  pore  folks,  but  you're  welcome  to  what  we 
have." 

The  fisherman,  too,  had  to  stoop  as  he  came  in, 
for  he,  too,  was  tall.  The  interior  was  dark,  in 
spite  of  the  wood  fire  in  the  big  stone  fireplace. 
Strings  of  herbs  and  red-pepper  pods  and  twisted 
tobacco  hung  from  the  ceiling  and  down  the  wall 
on  either  side  of  the  fire;  and  in  one  corner,  near 

21 


THE  TRAIL  OF  THE  LONESOME  PINE 

the  two  beds  in  the  room,  hand-made  quilts  of 
many  colours  were  piled  several  feet  high.  On 
wooden  pegs  above  the  door  where  ten  years 
before  would  have  been  buck  antlers  and  an  old- 
fashioned  rifle,  lay  a  Winchester;  on  either  side  of 
the  door  were  auger  holes  through  the  logs  (he  did 
not  understand  that  they  were  port-holes)  and 
another  Winchester  stood  in  the  corner.  From 
the  mantel  the  butt  of  a  big  44-Colt's  revolver 
protruded  ominously.  On  one  of  the  beds  in  the 
corner  he  could  see  the  outlines  of  a  figure  lying 
under  a  brilliantly  figured  quilt,  and  at  the  foot  of 
it  the  boy  with  the  pine  dagger  had  retreated  for 
refuge.  From  the  moment  he  stooped  at  the  door 
something  in  the  room  had  made  him  vaguely 
uneasy,  and  when  his  eyes  in  swift  survey  came 
back  to  the  fire,  they  passed  the  blaze  swiftly  and 
met  on  the  edge  of  the  light  another  pair  of  eyes 
burning  on  him. 

"Howdye!"  said  Hale. 

"Howdye!"  was  the  low,  unpropitiating  answer. 

The  owner  of  the  eyes  was  nothing  but  a  boy, 
in  spite  of  his  length:  so  much  of  a  boy  that  a 
slight  crack  in  his  voice  showed  that  it  was  just 
past  the  throes  of  "changing,"  but  those  black 
eyes  burned  on  without  swerving — except  once 
when  they  flashed  at  the  little  girl  who,  with  her 
chin  in  her  hand  and  one  foot  on  the  top  rung  of 
her  chair,  was  gazing  at  the  stranger  with  equal 
steadiness.  She  saw  the  boy's  glance,  she  shifted 

22 


THE  TRAIL  OF  THE  LONESOME  PINE 

her  knees  impatiently  and  her  little  face  grew 
sullen.  Hale  smiled  inwardly,  for  he  thought  he 
could  already  see  the  lay  of  the  land,  and  he  won 
dered  that,  at  such  an  age,  such  fierceness  could 
be:  so  every  now  and  then  he  looked  at  the  boy, 
and  every  time  he  looked,  the  black  eyes  were  on 
him.  The  mountain  youth  must  have  been  al 
most  six  feet  tall,  young  as  he  was,  and  while  he 
was  lanky  in  limb  he  was  well  knit.  His  jean 
trousers  were  stuffed  in  the  top  of  his  boots  and 
were  tight  over  his  knees  which  were  well-moulded, 
and  that  is  rare  with  a  mountaineer.  A  loop  of 
black  hair  curved  over  his  forehead,  down  almost 
to  his  left  eye.  His  nose  was  straight  and  almost 
delicate  and  his  mouth  was  small,  but  extraor 
dinarily  resolute.  Somewhere  he  had  seen  that 
face  before,  and  he  turned  suddenly,  but  he  did 
not  startle  the  lad  with  his  abruptness,  nor  make 
him  turn  his  gaze. 

"Why,  haven't  I — ?"  he  said.  And  then  he 
suddenly  remembered.  He  had  seen  that  boy  not 
long  since  on  the  other  side  of  the  mountains,  rid 
ing  his  horse  at  a  gallop  down  the  county  road 
with  his  reins  in  his  teeth,  and  shooting  a  pistol 
alternately  at  the  sun  and  the  earth  with  either 
hand.  Perhaps  it  was  as  well  not  to  recall  the  in 
cident.  He  turned  to  the  old  mountaineer. 

"Do  you  mean  to  tell  me  that  a  man  can't  go 
through  these  mountains  without  telling  every 
body  who  asks  him  what  his  name  is  ?" 

23 


THE  TRAIL  OF  THE  LONESOME  PINE 

The  effect  of  his  question  was  singular.  The  old 
man  spat  into  the  fire  and  put  his  hand  to  his 
beard.  The  boy  crossed  his  legs  suddenly  and 
shoved  his  muscular  fingers  deep  into  his  pockets. 
The  figure  shifted  position  on  the  bed  and  the 
infant  at  the  foot  of  it  seemed  to  clench  his  toy- 
dagger  a  little  more  tightly.  Only  the  little  girl 
was  motionless — she  still  looked  at  him,  unwink 
ing.  What  sort  of  wild  animals  had  he  fallen 
among  ? 

"No,  he  can't — an5  keep  healthy."  The  giant 
spoke  shortly. 

"Why  not?" 

"Well,  if  a  man  hain't  up  to  some  devilment, 
what  reason's  he  got  fer  not  tellin'  his  name  ?" 

"That's  his  business." 

"Tain't  over  hyeh.  Hit's  mine.  Ef  a  man 
don't  want  to  tell  his  name  over  hyeh,  he's  a  spy 
or  a  raider  or  a  officer  looking  fer  somebody  or," 
he  added  carelessly,  but  with  a  quick  covert  look 
at  his  visitor — "he's  got  some  kind  o'  business 
that  he  don't  want  nobody  to  know  about." 

"Well,  I  came  over  here — just  to — well,  I 
hardly  know  why  I  did  come." 

"Jess  so,"  said  the  old  man  dryly.  "An'  if  ye 
ain't  looking  fer  trouble,  you'd  better  tell  your 
name  in  these  mountains,  whenever  you're  axed. 
Ef  enough  people  air  backin'  a  custom  anywhar 
hit  goes,  don't  hit  ?" 

His   logic  was   good — and   Hale   said   nothing. 

24 


THE  TRAIL  OF  THE  LONESOME  PINE 

Presently  the  old  man  rose  with  a  smile  on  his 
face  that  looked  cynical,  picked  up  a  black  lump 
and  threw  it  into  the  fire.  It  caught  fire,  crackled, 
blazed,  almost  oozed  with  oil,  and  Hale  leaned 
forward  and  leaned  back. 

"Pretty  good  coal!" 

"Hain't  it,  though  ?"  The  old  man  picked  up 
a  sliver  that  had  flown  to  the  hearth  and  held  a 
match  to  it.  The  piece  blazed  and  burned  in  his 
hand. 

"I  never  seed  no  coal  in  these  mountains  like 
that — did  you?" 

"Not  often — find  it  around  here?" 

"  Right  hyeh  on  this  farm — about  five  feet  thick ! " 

"What?" 

"An'  no  partin'." 

"No  partin'" — it  was  not  often  that  he  found 
a  mountaineer  who  knew  what  a  parting  in  a  coal 
bed  was. 

"A  friend  o'  mine  on  t'other  side," — a  light 
dawned  for  the  engineer. 

"Oh,"  he  said  quickly.  "That's  how  you  knew 
my  name." 

"  Right  you  air,  stranger.  He  tol'  me  you  was 
a — expert." 

The  old  man  laughed  loudly.  "An'  that's  why 
you  come  over  hyeh." 

"No,  it  isn't." 

"Co'se  not," — the  old  fellow  laughed  again. 
Hale  shifted  the  talk. 

25 


THE  TRAIL  OF  THE  LONESOME  PINE 

"Well,  now  that  you  know  my  name,  suppose 
you  tell  me  what  yours  is  ?" 

"Tolliver— Judd  Tolliver."    Hale  started. 

"  Not  Devil  Judd!" 

"That's  what  some  evil  folks  calls  me."  Again 
he  spoke  shortly.  The  mountaineers  do  not  like 
to  talk  about  their  feuds.  Hale  knew  this — and 
the  subject  was  dropped.  But  he  watched  the 
huge  mountaineer  with  interest.  There  was  no 
more  famous  character  in  all  those  hills  than  the 
giant  before  him — yet  his  face  was  kind  and  was 
good-humoured,  but  the  nose  and  eyes  were  the 
beak  and  eyes  of  some  bird  of  prey.  The  little 
girl  had  disappeared  for  a  moment.  She  came 
back  with  a  blue-backed  spelling-book,  a  second 
reader  and  a  worn  copy  of  "  Mother  Goose,"  and 
she  opened  first  one  and  then  the  other  until  the 
attention  of  the  visitor  was  caught — the  black- 
haired  youth  watching  her  meanwhile  with  lowering 
brows. 

"Where  did  you  learn  to  read?"  Hale  asked. 
The  old  man  answered: 

"A  preacher  come  by  our  house  over  on  the 
Nawth  Fork  'bout  three  year  ago,  and  afore  I 
knowed  it  he  made  me  promise  to  send  her  sister 
Sally  to  some  school  up  thar  on  the  edge  of  the 
settlements.  And  after  she  come  home,  Sal 
larned  that  little  gal  to  read  and  spell.  Sal  died 
'bout  a  year  ago." 

Hale  reached  over  and  got  the  spelling-book, 
26 


THE  TRAIL  OF  THE  LONESOME  PINE 

and  the  old  man  grinned  at  the  quick,  unerring 
responses  of  the  little  girl,  and  the  engineer  looked 
surprised.  She  read,  too,  with  unusual  facility, 
and  her  pronunciation  was  very  precise  and  not  at 
all  like  her  speech. 

"You  ought  to  send  her  to  the  same  place,"  he 
said,  but  the  old  fellow  shook  his  head. 

"I  couldn't  git  along  without  her." 

The  little  girl's  eyes  began  to  dance  suddenly, 
and,  without  opening  "Mother  Goose,"  she  began: 

"Jack  and  Jill  went  up  a  hill,"  and  then  she 
broke  into  a  laugh  and  Hale  laughed  with  her. 

Abruptly,  the  boy  opposite  rose  to  his  great 
length. 

"I  reckon  I  better  be  goin'."  That  was  all  he 
said  as  he  caught  up  a  Winchester,  which  stood 
unseen  by  his  side,  and  out  he  stalked.  There  was 
not  a  word  of  good-by,  not  a  glance  at  anybody. 
A  few  minutes  later  Hale  heard  the  creak  of  a 
barn  door  on  wooden  hinges,  a  cursing  command 
to  a  horse,  and  four  feet  going  in  a  gallop  down  the 
path,  and  he  knew  there  went  an  enemy. 

"That's  a  good-looking  boy — who  is  he  ?" 

The  old  man  spat  into  the  fire.  It  seemed  that 
he  was  not  going  to  answer  and  the  little  girl  broke 
in: 

"Hit's  my  cousin  Dave — he  lives  over  on  the 
Nawth  Fork." 

That  was  the  seat  of  the  Tolliver-Falin  feud. 
Of  that  feud,  too,  Hale  had  heard,  and  so  no  more 

27 


THE  TRAIL  OF  THE  LONESOME  PINE 

along  that  line  of  inquiry.     He,  too,  soon  rose  to 

g°- 

"Why,  ain't  ye  goin'  to  have  something  to  eat  ?" 

"Oh,  no,  I've  got  something  in  my  saddle 
bags  and  I  must  be  getting  back  to  the  Gap." 

"Well,  I  reckon  you  ain't.  You're  jes'  goin'  to 
take  a  snack  right  here."  Hale  hesitated,  but  the 
little  girl  was  looking  at  him  with  such  uncon 
scious  eagerness  in  her  dark  eyes  that  he  sat  down 
again. 

"All  right,  I  will,  thank  you."  At  once  she  ran 
to  the  kitchen  and  the  old  man  rose  and  pulled  a 
bottle  of  white  liquid  from  under  the  quilts. 

"  I  reckon  I  can  trust  ye,"  he  said.  The  liquor 
burned  Hale  like  fire,  and  the  old  man,  with  a 
laugh  at  the  face  the  stranger  made,  tossed  off 
a  tumblerful. 

"Gracious!"  said  Hale,  "can  you  do  that 
often?" 

"Afore  breakfast,  dinner  and  supper,"  said  the 
old  man — "but  I  don't."  Hale  felt  a  plucking  at 
his  sleeve.  It  was  the  boy  with  the  dagger  at  his 
elbow. 

"Less  see  you  laugh  that-a-way  agin,"  said 
Bub  with  such  deadly  seriousness  that  Hale  un 
consciously  broke  into  the  same  peal. 

"Now,"  said  Bub,  unwinking,  "I  ain't  afeard 
o'  you  no  more." 


28 


A  WAITING  dinner,  the  mountaineer  and  the 
-**•  "furriner"  sat  on  the  porch  while  Bub 
carved  away  at  another  pine  dagger  on  the  stoop. 
As  Hale  passed  out  the  door,  a  querulous  voice 
said  "How dye"  from  the  bed  in  the  corner  and 
he  knew  it  was  the  step-mother  from  whom  the 
little  girl  expected  some  nether-world  punish 
ment  for  an  offence  of  which  he  was  ignorant. 
He  had  heard  of  the  feud  that  had  been  going  on 
between  the  red  Falins  and  the  black  Tollivers  for 
a  quarter  of  a  century,  and  this  was  Devil  Judd, 
who  had  earned  his  nickname  when  he  was  the 
leader  of  his  clan  by  his  terrible  strength,  his 
marksmanship,  his  cunning  and  his  courage. 
Some  years  since  the  old  man  had  retired  from  the 
leadership,  because  he  was  tired  of  fighting  or 
because  he  had  quarrelled  with  his  brother  Dave 
and  his  foster-brother,  Bad  Rufe — known  as  the 
terror  of  the  Tollivers — or  from  some  unknown 
reason,  and  in  consequence  there  had  been  peace 
for  a  long  time — the  Falins  fearing  that  Devil 
Judd  would  be  led  into  the  feud  again,  the  Tollivers 
wary  of  starting  hostilities  without  his  aid.  After 
the  last  trouble,  Bad  Rufe  Tolliver  had  gone 
West  and  old  Judd  had  moved  his  family  as  far 

29 


THE  TRAIL  OF  THE  LONESOME  PINE 

away  as  possible.  Hale  looked  around  him:  this, 
then,  was  the  home  of  Devil  Judd  Tolliver;  the 
little  creature  inside  was  his  daughter  and  her 
name  was  June.  All  around  the  cabin  the  wooded 
mountains  towered  except  where,  straight  before 
his  eyes,  Lonesome  Creek  slipped  through  them 
to  the  river,  and  the  old  man  had  certainly  picked 
out  the  very  heart  of  silence  for  his  home.  There 
was  no  neighbour  within  two  leagues,  Judd  said, 
except  old  Squire  Billy  Beams,  who  ran  a  mill  a 
mile  down  the  river.  No  wonder  the  spot  was 
called  Lonesome  Cove. 

"You  must  ha'  seed  Uncle  Billy  and  ole  Hon 
passin',"  he  said. 

"I  did."  Devil  Judd  laughed  and  Hale  made 
out  that  "Hon"  was  short  for  Honey. 

"Uncle  Billy  used  to  drink  right  smart.  Ole 
Hon  broke  him.  She  followed  him  down  to  the 
grocery  one  day  and  walked  in.  'Come  on,  boys 
— let's  have  a  drink';  and  she  set  'em  up  an'  set 
'em  up  until  Uncle  Billy  most  went  crazy.  He 
had  hard  work  gittin'  her  home,  an'  Uncle  Billy 
hain't  teched  a  drap  since."  And  the  old  moun 
taineer  chuckled  again. 

All  the  time  Hale  could  hear  noises  from  the 
kitchen  inside.  The  old  step-mother  was  abed, 
he  had  seen  no  other  woman  about  the  house  and 
he  wondered  if  the  child  could  be  cooking  dinner. 
Her  flushed  face  answered  when  she  opened  the 
kitchen  door  and  called  them  in.  She  had  not 

30 


THE  TRAIL  OF  THE  LONESOME  PINE 

only  cooked  but  now  she  served  as  well,  and  when 
he  thanked  her,  as  he  did  every  time  she  passed 
something  to  him,  she  would  colour  faintly. 
Once  or  twice  her  hand  seemed  to  tremble,  and  he 
never  looked  at  her  but  her  questioning  dark  eyes 
were  full  upon  him,  and  always  she  kept  one  hand 
busy  pushing  her  thick  hair  back  from  her  fore 
head.  He  had  not  asked  her  if  it  was  her  foot 
prints  he  had  seen  coming  down  the  mountain  for 
fear  that  he  might  betray  her,  but  apparently  she 
had  told  on  herself,  for  Bub,  after  a  while,  burst 
out  suddenly: 

"  June,  thar,  thought  you  was  a  raider."  The 
little  girl  flushed  and  the  old  man  laughed. 

"So'd  you,  pap,"  she  said  quietly. 

"That's  right,"  he  said.  "So'd  anybody. 
I  reckon  you're  the  first  man  that  ever  come  over 
hyeh  jus'  to  go  a-fishin',"  and  he  laughed  again. 
The  stress  on  the  last  words  showed  that  he  be 
lieved  no  man  had  yet  come  just  for  that  purpose, 
and  Hale  merely  laughed  with  him.  The  old  fel 
low  gulped  his  food,  pushed  his  chair  back,  and 
when  Hale  was  through,  he  wasted  no  more  time. 

"Want  to  see  that  coal  ?" 

"Yes,  I  do,"  said  Hale. 

"All  right,  I'll  be  ready  in  a  minute." 

The  little  girl  followed  Hale  out  on  the  porch 
and  stood  with  her  back  against  the  railing. 

"Did  you  catch  it?"  he  asked.  She  nodded, 
unsmiling. 


THE  TRAIL  OF  THE  LONESOME  PINE 

"I'm  sorry.  What  were  you  doing  up  there?" 
She  showed  no  surprise  that  he  knew  that  she  had 
been  up  there,  and  while  she  answered  his  ques 
tion,  he  could  see  that  she  was  thinking  of  some 
thing  else. 

"I'd  heerd  so  much  about  what  you  furriners 
was  a-doin'  over  thar." 

"You  must  have  heard  about  a  place  farther 
over — but  it's  coming  over  there,  too,  some  day." 
And  still  she  looked  an  unspoken  question. 

The  fish  that  Hale  had  caught  was  lying  where  he 
had  left  it  on  the  edge  of  the  porch. 

"That's  for  you,  June,"  he  said,  pointing  to  it, 
and  the  name  as  he  spoke  it  was  sweet  to  his  ears. 

"I'm  much  obleeged,"  she  said,  shyly.  "I'd 
'a'  cooked  hit  fer  ye  if  I'd  'a'  knowed  you  wasn't 
goin'  to  take  hit  home." 

"That's  the  reason  I  didn't  give  it  to  you  at 
first — I  was  afraid  you'd  do  that.  I  wanted  you 
to  have  it." 

"Much  obleeged,"  she  said  again,  still  unsmil 
ing,  and  then  she  suddenly  looked  up  at  him — the 
deeps  of  her  dark  eyes  troubled. 

"Air  ye  ever  comin'  back  agin,  Jack?"  Hale 
was  not  accustomed  to  the  familiar  form  of  ad 
dress  common  in  the  mountains,  independent  of 
sex  or  age — and  he  would  have  been  staggered 
had  not  her  face  been  so  serious.  And  then  few 
women  had  ever  called  him  by  his  first  name,  and 
this  time  his  own  name  was  good  to  his  ears. 

32 


THE  TRAIL  OF  THE  LONESOME  PINE 

"Yes,  June,"  he  said  soberly.  "Not  for  some 
time,  maybe — but  I'm  coming  back  again,  sure." 
She  smiled  then  with  both  lips  and  eyes — radi 
antly. 

"I'll  be  lookin'  fer  ye,"  she  said  simply. 


33 


VI 

Al  AHE  old  man  went  with  him  up  the  creek  and, 
A  passing  the  milk  house,  turned  up  a  brush- 
bordered  little  branch  in  which  the  engineer  saw 
signs  of  coal.  Up  the  creek  the  mountaineer  led 
him  some  thirty  yards  above  the  water  level  and 
stopped.  An  entry  had  been  driven  through  the 
rich  earth  and  ten  feet  within  was  a  shining  bed  of 
coal.  There  was  no  parting  except  two  inches  of 
mother-of-coal — midway,  which  would  make  it 
but  easier  to  mine.  Who  had  taught  that  old  man 
to  open  coal  in  such  a  way — to  make  such  a  fac 
ing  ?  It  looked  as  though  the  old  fellow  were  in 
some  scheme  with  another  to  get  him  interested. 
As  he  drew  closer,  he  saw  radiations  of  some 
twelve  inches,  all  over  the  face  of  the  coal,  star- 
shaped,  and  he  almost  gasped.  It  was  not  only 
cannel  coal — it  was  "bird's-eye"  cannel.  Heav 
ens,  what  a  find!  Instantly  he  was  the  cautious 
man  of  business,  alert,  cold,  uncommunicative. 

"That  looks  like  a  pretty  good — "  he  drawled  the 
last  two  words — "vein  of  coal.  I'd  like  to  take  a 
sample  over  to  the  Gap  and  analyze  it."  His  ham 
mer,  which  he  always  carried — was  in  his  saddle 
pockets,  but  he  did  not  have  to  go  down  to  his 

34 


THE  TRAIL  OF  THE  LONESOME  PINE 

horse.  There  were  pieces  on  the  ground  that 
would  suit  his  purpose,  left  there,  no  doubt,  by  his 
predecessor. 

"  Now  I  reckon  you  know  that  I  know  why  you 
came  over  hyeh." 

Hale  started  to  answer,  but  he  saw  it  was  no 
use. 

"Yes — and  Pm  coming  again — for  the  same 


reason." 


"Shore — come  agin  and  come  often." 
The  little  girl  was  standing  on  the  porch  as  he 
rode  past  the  milk  house.  He  waved  his  hand  to 
her,  but  she  did  not  move  nor  answer.  What  a  life 
for  a  child — for  that  keen-eyed,  sweet-faced  child ! 
But  that  coal,  cannel,  rich  as  oil,  above  water, 
five  feet  in  thickness,  easy  to  mine,  with  a  solid 
roof  and  perhaps  self-drainage,  if  he  could  judge 
from  the  dip  of  the  vein:  and  a  market  every 
where — England,  Spain,  Italy,  Brazil.  The  coal, 
to  be  sure,  might  not  be  persistent — thirty  yards 
within  it  might  change  in  quality  to  ordinary 
bituminous  coal,  but  he  could  settle  that  only  with 
a  steam  drill.  A  steam  drill!  He  would  as  well 
ask  for  the  wagon  that  he  had  long  ago  hitched  to 
a  star;  and  then  there  might  be  a  fault  in  the 
formation.  But  why  bother  now?  The  coal 
would  stay  there,  and  now  he  had  other  plans  that 
made  even  that  find  insignificant.  And  yet  if  he 
bought  that  coal  now — what  a  bargain!  It  was 
not  that  the  ideals  of  his  college  days  were  tar- 

35 


THE  TRAIL  OF  THE  LONESOME  PINE 

nished,  but  he  was  a  man  of  business  now,  and  if 
he  would  take  the  old  man's  land  for  a  song — it 
was  because  others  of  his  kind  would  do  the  same! 
But  why  bother,  he  asked  himself  again,  when  his 
brain  was  in  a  ferment  with  a  colossal  scheme  that 
would  make  dizzy  the  magnates  who  would  some 
day  drive  their  roadways  of  steel  into  those  wild 
hills.  So  he  shook  himself  free  of  the  question, 
which  passed  from  his  mind  only  with  a  transient 
wonder  as  to  who  it  was  that  had  told  of  him  to 
the  old  mountaineer,  and  had  so  paved  his  way  for 
an  investigation — and  then  he  wheeled  suddenly 
in  his  saddle.  The  bushes  had  rustled  gently  be 
hind  him  and  out  from  them  stepped  an  extraor 
dinary  human  shape — wearing  a  coon-skin  cap, 
belted  with  two  rows  of  big  cartridges,  carrying 
a  big  Winchester  over  one  shoulder  and  a  circular 
tube  of  brass  in  his  left  hand.  With  his  right  leg 
straight,  his  left  thigh  drawn  into  the  hollow  of  his 
saddle  and  his  left  hand  on  the  rump  of  his  horse, 
Hale  simply  stared,  his  eyes  dropping  by  and  by 
from  the  pale-blue  eyes  and  stubbly  red  beard  of 
the  stranger,  down  past  the  cartridge-belts  to  the 
man's  feet,  on  which  were  moccasins — with  the 
heels  forward!  Into  what  sort  of  a  world  had  he 
dropped! 

"  So  nary  a  soul  can  tell  which  way  I'm  going," 
said  the  red-haired  stranger,  with  a  grin  that 
loosed  a  hollow  chuckle  far  behind  it. 

"Would  you  mind  telling  me  what  difference  it 

36 


THE  TRAIL  OF  THE  LONESOME  PINE 

can  make  to  me  which  way  you  are  going?" 
Every  moment  he  was  expecting  the  stranger  to 
ask  his  name,  but  again  that  chuckle  came. 

"It  makes  a  mighty  sight  o'  difference  to  some 
folks." 

"  But  none  to  me." 

"  I  hain't  wearin'  'em  fer  you.    I  know  you." 

"Oh,  you  do."  The  stranger  suddenly  lowered 
his  Winchester  and  turned  his  face,  with  his  ear 
cocked  like  an  animal.  There  was  some  noise  on 
the  spur  above. 

"Nothin'  but  a  hickory  nut,"  said  the  chuckle 
again.  But  Hale  had  been  studying  that  strange 
face.  One  side  of  it  was  calm,  kindly,  philosophic, 
benevolent;  but,  when  the  other  was  turned,  a 
curious  twitch  of  the  muscles  at  the  left  side  of  the 
mouth  showed  the  teeth  and  made  a  snarl  there 
that  was  wolfish. 

"Yes,  and  I  know  you,"  he  said  slowly.  Self- 
satisfaction,  straightway,  was  ardent  in  the  face. 

"I  knowed  you  would  git  to  know  me  in  time, 
if  you  didn't  now." 

This  was  the  Red  Fox  of  the  mountains,  of 
whom  he  had  heard  so  much — "yarb"  doctor 
and  Swedenborgian  preacher;  revenue  officer  and, 
some  said,  cold-blooded  murderer.  He  would 
walk  twenty  miles  to  preach,  or  would  start  at  any 
hour  of  the  day  or  night  to  minister  to  the  sick, 
and  would  charge  for  neither  service.  At  other 
hours  he  would  be  searching  for  moonshine  stills, 

37 


THE  TRAIL  OF  THE  LONESOME  PINE 

or  watching  his  enemies  in  the  valley  from  some 
mountain  top,  with  that  huge  spy-glass — Hale 
could  see  now  that  the  brass  tube  was  a  telescope 
— that  he  might  slip  down  and  unawares  take  a 
pot-shot  at  them.  The  Red  Fox  communicated 
with  spirits,  had  visions  and  superhuman  powers 
of  locomotion — stepping  mysteriously  from  the 
bushes,  people  said,  to  walk  at  the  traveller's  side 
and  as  mysteriously  disappearing  into  them  again, 
to  be  heard  of  in  a  few  hours  an  incredible  dis 
tance  away. 

"I've  been  watchin'  ye  from  up  thar,"  he  said 
with  a  wave  of  his  hand.  "  I  seed  ye  go  up  the 
creek,  and  then  the  bushes  hid  ye.  I  know  what 
you  was  after — but  did  you  see  any  signs  up  thar 
of  anything  you  wasn't  looking  fer  ?" 

Hale  laughed. 

"Well,  I've  been  in  these  mountains  long 
enough  not  to  tell  you,  if  I  had." 

The  Red  Fox  chuckled. 

"I  wasn't  sure  you  had — "  Hale  coughed  and 
spat  to  the  other  side  of  his  horse.  When  he  looked 
around,  the  Red  Fox  was  gone,  and  he  had  heard 
no  sound  of  his  going. 

"Well,  I  be-—"  Hale  clucked  to  his  horse  and 
as  he  climbed  the  last  steep  and  drew  near  the 
Big  Pine  he  again  heard  a  noise  out  in  the 
woods  and  he  knew  this  time  it  was  the  fall  of  a 
human  foot  and  not  of  a  hickory  nut.  He  was 
right,  and,  as  he  rode  by  the  Pine,  saw  again  at  its 

38 


THE  TRAIL  OF  THE  LONESOME  PINE 

base  the  print  of  the  little  girl's  foot — wondering 
afresh  at  the  reason  that  led  her  up  there — and 
dropped  down  through  the  afternoon  shadows 
towards  the  smoke  and  steam  and  bustle  and 
greed  of  the  Twentieth  Century.  A  long,  lean, 
black-eyed  boy,  with  a  wave  of  black  hair  over  his 
forehead,  was  pushing  his  horse  the  other  way 
along  the  Big  Black  and  dropping  down  through 
the  dusk  into  the  Middle  Ages — both  all  but 
touching  on  either  side  the  outstretched  hands  of 
the  wild  little  creature  left  in  the  shadows  of  Lone 
some  Cove. 


39 


VII 


the  Big  Pine,  swerving  with  a  smile  his 
horse  aside  that  he  might  not  obliterate  the 
foot-print  in  the  black  earth,  and  down  the  moun 
tain,  his  brain  busy  with  his  big  purpose,  went 
John  Hale,  by  instinct,  inheritance,  blood  and 
tradition  —  pioneer. 

One  of  his  forefathers  had  been  with  Washing 
ton  on  the  Father's  first  historic  expedition  into  the 
wilds  of  Virginia.  His  great-grandfather  had 
accompanied  Boone  when  that  hunter  first  pene 
trated  the  "Dark  and  Bloody  Ground,"  had  gone 
back  to  Virginia  and  come  again  with  a  surveyor's 
chain  and  compass  to  help  wrest  it  from  the  red 
men,  among  whom  there  had  been  an  immemorial 
conflict  for  possession  and  a  never-recognized 
claim  of  ownership.  That  compass  and  that  chain 
his  grandfather  had  fallen  heir  to  and  with  that 
compass  and  chain  his  father  had  earned  his  live 
lihood  amid  the  wrecks  of  the  Civil  War.  Hale 
went  to  the  old  Transylvania  University  at  Lex 
ington,  the  first  seat  of  learning  planted  beyond 
the  Alleghanies.  He  was  fond  of  history,  of  the 
sciences  and  literature,  was  unusually  adept  in 
Latin  and  Greek,  and  had  a  passion  for  mathe- 

40 


THE  TRAIL  OF  THE  LONESOME  PINE 

matics.  He  was  graduated  with  honours,  he 
taught  two  years  and  got  his  degree  of  Master  of 
Arts,  but  the  pioneer  spirit  in  his  blood  would  still 
out,  and  his  polite  learning  he  then  threw  to  the 
winds. 

Other  young  Kentuckians  had  gone  West  in 
shoals,  but  he  kept  his  eye  on  his  own  State,  and 
one  autumn  he  added  a  pick  to  the  old  compass 
and  the  ancestral  chain,  struck  the  Old  Wilderness 
Trail  that  his  grandfather  had  travelled,  to  look 
for  his  own  fortune  in  a  land  which  that  old  gentle 
man  had  passed  over  as  worthless.  At  the  Cum 
berland  River  he  took  a  canoe  and  drifted  down 
the  river  into  the  wild  coal-swollen  hills.  Through 
the  winter  he  froze,  starved  and  prospected,  and  a 
year  later  he  was  opening  up  a  region  that  became 
famous  after  his  trust  and  inexperience  had  let 
others  worm  out  of  him  an  interest  that  would  have 
made  him  easy  for  life. 

With  the  vision  of  a  seer,  he  was  as  innocent  as 
Boone.  Stripped  clean,  he  got  out  his  map,  such 
geological  reports  as  he  could  find  and  went  into  a 
studious  trance  for  a  month,  emerging  mentally 
with  the  freshness  of  a  snake  that  has  shed  its  skin. 
What  had  happened  in  Pennsylvania  must  hap 
pen  all  along  the  great  Alleghany  chain  in  the 
mountains  of  Virginia,  West  Virginia,  Kentucky, 
Alabama,  Tennessee.  Some  day  the  avalanche 
must  sweep  south,  it  must — it  must.  That  he 
might  be  a  quarter  of  a  century  too  soon  in  his 

41 


THE  TRAIL  OF  THE  LONESOME  PINE 

calculations  never  crossed  his  mind.  Some  day  it 
must  come. 

Now  there  was  not  an  ounce  of  coal  immedi 
ately  south-east  of  the  Cumberland  Mountains — 
not  an  ounce  of  iron  ore  immediately  north-east; 
all  the  coal  lay  to  the  north-east;  all  of  the  iron  ore 
to  the  south-east.  So  said  Geology.  For  three 
hundred  miles  there  were  only  four  gaps  through 
that  mighty  mountain  chain — three  at  water  level, 
and  one  at  historic  Cumberland  Gap  which  was 
not  at  water  level  and  would  have  to  be  tunnelled. 
So  said  Geography. 

All  railroads,  to  east  and  to  west,  would  have  to 
pass  through  those  gaps;  through  them  the  coal 
must  be  brought  to  the  iron  ore,  or  the  ore  to  the 
coal.  Through  three  gaps  water  flowed  between 
ore  and  coal  and  the  very  hills  between  were  lime 
stone.  Was  there  any  such  juxtaposition  of  the 
four  raw  materials  for  the  making  of  iron  in  the 
known  world  ?  When  he  got  that  far  in  his  logic, 
the  sweat  broke  from  his  brows;  he  felt  dizzy  and 
he  got  up  and  walked  into  the  open  air.  As  the 
vastness  and  certainty  of  the  scheme — what  fool 
could  not  see  it  ? — rushed  through  him  full  force, 
he  could  scarcely  get  his  breath.  There  must  be  a 
town  in  one  of  those  gaps — but  in  which  ?  No 
matter — he  would  buy  all  of  them — all  of  them, 
he  repeated  over  and  over  again;  for  some  day 
there  must  be  a  town  in  one,  and  some  day  a  town 
in  all,  and  from  all  he  would  reap  his  harvest  He 

42 


THE  TRAIL  OF  THE  LONESOME  PINE 

optioned  those  four  gaps  at  a  low  purchase  price 
that  was  absurd.  He  went  back  to  the  Bluegrass; 
he  went  to  New  York;  in  some  way  he  managed 
to  get  to  England.  It  had  never  crossed  his  mind 
that  other  eyes  could  not  see  what  he  so  clearly 
saw  and  yet  everywhere  he  was  pronounced  crazy. 
He  failed  and  his  options  ran  out,  but  he  was  un 
daunted.  He  picked  his  choice  of  the  four  gaps 
and  gave  up  the  other  three.  This  favourite  gap 
he  had  just  finished  optioning  again,  and  now 
again  he  meant  to  keep  at  his  old  quest.  That  gap 
he  was  entering  now  from  the  north  side  and  the 
North  Fork  of  the  river  was  hurrying  to  enter  too. 
On  his  left  was  a  great  gray  rock,  projecting  edge 
wise,  covered  with  laurel  and  rhododendron,  and 
under  it  was  the  first  big  pool  from  which  the 
stream  poured  faster  still.  There  had  been  a  ter 
rible  convulsion  in  that  gap  when  the  earth  was 
young;  the  strata  had  been  tossed  upright  and 
planted  almost  vertical  for  all  time,  and,  a  little  far 
ther,  one  mighty  ledge,  moss-grown,  bush-covered, 
sentinelled  with  grim  pines,  their  bases  unseen, 
seemed  to  be  making  a  heavy  flight  toward  the 
clouds. 

Big  bowlders  began  to  pop  up  in  the  river-bed 
and  against  them  the  water  dashed  and  whirled 
and  eddied  backward  in  deep  pools,  while  above 
him  the  song  of  a  cataract  dropped  down  a  tree- 
choked  ravine.  Just  there  the  drop  came,  and  for 
a  long  space  he  could  see  the  river  lashing  rock  and 

43 


THE  TRAIL  OF  THE  LONESOME  PINE 

cliff  with  increasing  fury  as  though  it  were  seeking 
shelter  from  some  relentless  pursuer  in  the  dark 
thicket  where  it  disappeared.  Straight  in  front 
of  him  another  ledge  lifted  itself.  Beyond  that 
loomed  a  mountain  which  stopped  in  mid-air  and 
dropped  sheer  to  the  eye.  Its  crown  was  bare  and 
Hale  knew  that  up  there  was  a  mountain  farm, 
the  refuge  of  a  man  who  had  been  involved  in  that 
terrible  feud  beyond  Black  Mountain  behind  him. 
Five  minutes  later  he  was  at  the  yawning  mouth 
of  the  gap  and  there  lay  before  him  a  beautiful 
valley  shut  in  tightly,  for  all  the  eye  could  see, 
with  mighty  hills.  It  was  the  heaven-born  site  for 
the  unborn  city  of  his  dreams,  and  his  eyes  swept 
every  curve  of  the  valley  lovingly.  The  two  forks 
of  the  river  ran  around  it — he  could  follow  their 
course  by  the  trees  that  lined  the  banks  of  each — 
curving  within  a  stone's  throw  of  each  other  across 
the  valley  and  then  looping  away  as  from  the  neck 
of  an  ancient  lute  and,  like  its  framework,  coming 
together  again  down  the  valley,  where  they  surged 
together,  slipped  through  the  hills  and  sped  on 
with  the  song  of  a  sweeping  river.  Up  that  river 
could  come  the  track  of  commerce,  out  the  South 
Fork,  too,  it  could  go,  though  it  had  to  turn  east 
ward:  back  through  that  gap  it  could  be  traced 
north  and  west;  and  so  none  could  come  as  her 
alds  into  those  hills  but  their  footprints  could 
be  traced  through  that  wild,  rocky,  water-worn 
chasm.  Hale  drew  breath  and  raised  in  his  stirrups. 

44 


THE  TRAIL  OF  THE  LONESOME  PINE 

"It's  a  cinch,"  he  said  aloud.  "It's  a  shame 
to  take  the  money." 

Yet  nothing  was  in  sight  now  but  a  valley  farm 
house  above  the  ford  where  he  must  cross  the 
river  and  one  log  cabin  on  the  hill  beyond.  Still 
on  the  the  other  river  was  the  only  woollen  mill  in 
miles  around;  farther  up  was  the  only  grist  mill, 
and  near  by  was  the  only  store,  the  only  black 
smith  shop  and  the  only  hotel.  That  much  of  a 
start  the  gap  had  had  for  three-quarters  of  a  cen 
tury — only  from  the  south  now  a  railroad  was 
already  coming;  from  the  east  another  was  trav 
elling  like  a  wounded  snake  and  from  the  north 
still  another  creeped  to  meet  them.  Every  road 
must  run  through  the  gap  and  several  had  already 
run  through  it  lines  of  survey.  The  coal  was  at 
one  end  of  the  gap,  and  the  iron  ore  at  the  other, 
the  cliffs  between  were  limestone,  and  the  other 
elements  to  make  it  the  iron  centre  of  the  world 
flowed  through  it  like  a  torrent. 

"Selah!    It's  a  shame  to  take  the  money." 

He  splashed  into  the  creek  and  his  big  black 
horse  thrust  his  nose  into  the  clear  running  water. 
Minnows  were  playing  about  him.  A  hog-fish  flew 
for  shelter  under  a  rock,  and  below  the  ripples  a 
two-pound  bass  shot  like  an  arrow  into  deep  water. 

Above  and  below  him  the  stream  was  arched 
with  beech,  poplar  and  water  maple,  and  the 
banks  were  thick  with  laurel  and  rhododendron. 
His  eye  had  never  rested  on  a  lovelier  stream,  and 

45 


THE  TRAIL  OF  THE  LONESOME  PINE 

on  the  other  side  of  the  town  site,  which  nature 
had  kindly  lifted  twenty  feet  above  the  water 
level,  the  other  fork  was  of  equal  clearness,  swift 
ness  and  beauty. 

"Such  a  drainage,"  murmured  his  engineering 
instinct.  "Such  a  drainage!"  It  was  Saturday. 
Even  if  he  had  forgotten  he  would  have  known 
that  it  must  be  Saturday  when  he  climbed  the 
bank  on  the  other  side.  Many  horses  were  hitched 
under  the  trees,  and  here  and  there  was  a  farm- 
wagon  with  fragments  of  paper,  bits  of  food  and 
an  empty  bottle  or  two  lying  around.  It  was  the 
hour  when  the  alcoholic  spirits  of  the  day  were 
usually  most  high.  Evidently  they  were  running 
quite  high  that  day  and  something  distinctly  was 
going  on  "  up  town."  A  few  yells — the  high,  clear, 
penetrating  yell  of  a  fox-hunter — rent  the  air,  a 
chorus  of  pistol  shots  rang  out,  and  the  thunder  of 
horses'  hoofs  started  beyond  the  little  slope  he  was 
climbing.  When  he  reached  the  top,  a  merry 
youth,  with  a  red,  hatless  head  was  splitting  the 
dirt  road  toward  him,  his  reins  in  his  teeth,  and  a 
pistol  in  each  hand,  which  he  was  letting  off  alter 
nately  into  the  inoffensive  earth  and  toward  the 
unrebuking  heavens — that  seemed  a  favourite 
way  in  those  mountains  of  defying  God  and  the 
devil — and  behind  him  galloped  a  dozen  horsemen 
to  the  music  of  throat,  pistol  and  iron  hoof. 

The  fiery-headed  youth's  horse  swerved  and 
shot  by.  Hale  hardly  knew  that  the  rider  even 


THE  TRAIL  OF  THE  LONESOME  PINE 

saw  him,  but  the  coming  ones  saw  him  afar  and 
they  seemed  to  be  charging  him  in  close  array. 
Hale  stopped  his  horse  a  little  to  the  right  of  the 
centre  of  the  road,  and  being  equally  helpless 
against  an  inherited  passion  for  maintaining  his 
own  rights  and  a  similar  disinclination  to  get  out 
of  anybody's  way — he  sat  motionless.  Two  of 
the  coming  horsemen,  side  by  side,  were  a  little  in 
advance. 

"Git  out  o*  the  road!"  they  yelled.  Had  he 
made  the  motion  of  an  arm,  they  might  have  rid 
den  or  shot  him  down,  but  the  simple  quietness  of 
him  as  he  sat  with  hands  crossed  on  the  pommel 
of  his  saddle,  face  calm  and  set,  eyes  unwavering 
and  fearless,  had  the  effect  that  nothing  else  he 
could  have  done  would  have  brought  about — and 
they  swerved  on  either  side  of  him,  while  the  rest 
swerved,  too,  like  sheep,  one  stirrup  brushing  his, 
as  they  swept  by.  Hale  rode  slowly  on.  He  could 
hear  the  mountaineers  yelling  on  top  of  the  hill, 
but  he  did  not  look  back.  Several  bullets  sang 
over  his  head.  Most  likely  they  were  simply 
"bantering"  him,  but  no  matter — he  rode  on. 

The  blacksmith,  the  storekeeper  and  one  pass 
ing  drummer  were  coming  in  from  the  woods  when 
he  reached  the  hotel. 

"A  gang  o'  those  Falins,"  said  the  storekeeper, 
"they  come  over  lookin'  for  young  Dave  Tolliver. 
They  didn't  find  him,  so  they  thought  they'd  have 
some  fun";  and  he  pointed  to  the  hotel  sign  which 

47 


THE  TRAIL  OF  THE  LONESOME  PINE 

was  punctuated  with  pistol-bullet  periods.  Hale's 
eyes  flashed  once  but  he  said  nothing.  He  turned 
his  horse  over  to  a  stable  boy  and  went  across  to 
the  little  frame  cottage  that  served  as  office  and 
home  for  him.  While  he  sat  on  the  veranda  that 
almost  hung  over  the  mill-pond  of  the  other  stream 
three  of  the  Falins  came  riding  back.  One  of 
them  had  left  something  at  the  hotel,  and  while  he 
was  gone  in  for  it,  another  put  a  bullet  through 
the  sign,  and  seeing  Hale  rode  over  to  him.  Hale's 
blue  eye  looked  anything  than  friendly. 

"Don't  ye  like  it  ?"  asked  the  horseman. 

"I  do  not,"  said  Hale  calmly.  The  horseman 
seemed  amused. 

"Well,  whut  you  goin'  to  do  about  it?" 

"Nothing — at  least  not  now." 

"All  right — whenever  you  git  ready.  You 
ain't  ready  now  ?" 

"No,"  said  Hale,  "not  now."  The  fellow 
laughed. 

"Hit's  a  damned  good  thing  for  you  that  you 


ain't." 


Hale  looked  long  after  the  three  as  they  gal 
loped  down  the  road.  "When  I  start  to  build  this 
town,"  he  thought  gravely  and  without  humour, 
"I'll  put  a  stop  to  all  that." 


VIII 

a  spur  of  Black  Mountain,  beyond  the 
Kentucky  line,  a  lean  horse  was  tied  to  a 
sassafras  bush,  and  in  a  clump  of  rhododendron 
ten  yards  away,  a  lean  black-haired  boy  sat  with 
a  Winchester  between  his  stomach  and  thighs — 
waiting  for  the  dusk  to  drop.  His  chin  was  in 
both  hands,  the  brim  of  his  slouch  hat  was  curved 
crescent-wise  over  his  forehead,  and  his  eyes  were 
on  the  sweeping  bend  of  the  river  below  him. 
That  was  the  "Bad  Bend"  down  there,  peopled 
with  ancestral  enemies  and  the  head-quarters  of 
their  leader  for  the  last  ten  years.  Though  they 
had  been  at  peace  for  some  time  now,  it  had  been 
Saturday  in  the  county  town  ten  miles  down  the 
river  as  well,  and  nobody  ever  knew  what  a  Sat 
urday  might  bring  forth  between  his  people  and 
them.  So  he  would  not  risk  riding  through  that 
bend  by  the  light  of  day. 

All  the  long  way  up  spur  after  spur  and  along 
ridge  after  ridge,  all  along  the  still,  tree-crested 
top  of  the  Big  Black,  he  had  been  thinking  of  the 
man — the  "furriner"  whom  he  had  seen  at  his 
uncle's  cabin  in  Lonesome  Cove.  He  was  think 
ing  of  him  still,  as  he  sat  there  waiting  for  dark- 

49 


THE  TRAIL  OF  THE  LONESOME  PINE 

ness  to  come,  and  the  two  vertical  little  lines  in  his 
forehead,  that  had  hardly  relaxed  once  during  his 
climb,  got  deeper  and  deeper,  as  his  brain  puz 
zled  into  the  problem  that  was  worrying  it:  who 
the  stranger  was,  what  his  business  was  over  in 
the  Cove  and  his  business  with  the  Red  Fox  with 
whom  the  boy  had  seen  him  talking. 

He  had  heard  of  the  coming  of  the  "furriners" 
on  the  Virginia  side.  He  had  seen  some  of  them, 
he  was  suspicious  of  all  of  them,  he  disliked  them 
all — but  this  man  he  hated  straightway.  He  hated 
his  boots  and  his  clothes;  the  way  he  sat  and 
talked,  as  though  he  owned  the  earth,  and  the  lad 
snorted  contemptuously  under  his  breath: 

"He  called  pants  'trousers."  It  was  a  fearful 
indictment,  and  he  snorted  again:  " Trousers !" 

The  "furriner"  might  be  a  spy  or  a  revenue 
officer,  but  deep  down  in  the  boy's  heart  the  sus 
picion  had  been  working  that  he  had  gone  over 
there  to  see  his  little  cousin — the  girl  whom,  boy 
that  he  was,  he  had  marked,  when  she  was  even 
more  of  a  child  than  she  was  now,  for  his  own. 
His  people  understood  it  as  did  her  father,  and, 
child  though  she  was,  she,  too,  understood  it.  The 
difference  between  her  and  the  "furriner" — dif 
ference  in  age,  condition,  way  of  life,  education — 
meant  nothing  to  him,  and  as  his  suspicion  deep 
ened,  his  hands  dropped  and  gripped  his  Win 
chester,  and  through  his  gritting  teeth  came 
vaguely: 

50 


THE  TRAIL  OF  THE  LONESOME  PINE 

"By  God,  if  he  does — if  he  just  does!" 
Away  down  at  the  lower  end  of  the  river's  curv 
ing  sweep,  the  dirt  road  was  visible  for  a  hundred 
yards  or  more,  and  even  while  he  was  cursing  to 
himself,  a  group  of  horsemen  rode  into  sight.  All 
seemed  to  be  carrying  something  across  their 
saddle  bows,  and  as  the  boy's  eyes  caught  them, 
he  sank  sidewise  out  of  sight  and  stood  upright, 
peering  through  a  bush  of  rhododendron.  Some 
thing  had  happened  in  town  that  day — for  the 
horsemen  carried  Winchesters,  and  every  foreign 
thought  in  his  brain  passed  like  breath  from  a 
window  pane,  while  his  dark,  thin  face  whitened 
a  little  with  anxiety  and  wonder.  Swiftly  he 
stepped  backward,  keeping  the  bushes  between 
him  and  his  far-away  enemies.  Another  knot  he 
gave  the  reins  around  the  sassafras  bush  and  then, 
Winchester  in  hand,  he  dropped  noiseless  as  an 
Indian,  from  rock  to  rock,  tree  to  tree,  down  the 
sheer  spur  on  the  other  side.  Twenty  minutes 
later,  he  lay  behind  a  bush  that  was  sheltered  by 
the  top  boulder  of  the  rocky  point  under  which 
the  road  ran.  His  enemies  were  in  their  own 
country;  they  would  probably  be  talking  over  the 
happenings  in  town  that  day,  and  from  them  he 
would  learn  what  was  going  on. 

So  long  he  lay  that  he  got  tired  and  out  of  pa 
tience,  and  he  was  about  to  creep  around  the 
boulder,  when  the  clink  of  a  horseshoe  against  a 
stone  told  him  they  were  coming,  and  he  flattened 

51 


THE  TRAIL  OF  THE  LONESOME  PINE 

to  the  earth  and  closed  his  eyes  that  his  ears  might 
be  more  keen.  The  Falins  were  riding  silently, 
but  as  the  first  two  passed  under  him,  one  said : 

"I'd  like  to  know  who  the  hell  warned  'em!" 

"Whar's  the  Red  Fox?"  was  the  significant 
answer. 

The  boy's  heart  leaped.  There  had  been  dev 
iltry  abroad,  but  his  kinsmen  had  escaped.  No 
one  uttered  a  word  as  they  rode  two  by  two,  under 
him,  but  one  voice  came  back  to  him  as  they 
turned  the  point. 

"I  wonder  if  the  other  boys  ketched  young 
Dave  ?"  He  could  not  catch  the  answer  to  that — 
only  the  oath  that  was  in  it,  and  when  the  sound 
of  the  horses'  hoofs  died  away,  he  turned  over  on 
his  back  and  stared  up  at  the  sky.  Some  trouble 
had  come  and  through  his  own  caution,  and  the 
mercy  of  Providence  that  had  kept  him  away  from 
the  Gap,  he  had  had  his  escape  from  death  that 
day.  He  would  tempt  that  Providence  no  more, 
even  by  climbing  back  to  his  horse  in  the  waning 
light,  and  it  was  not  until  dusk  had  fallen  that  he 
was  leading  the  beast  down  the  spur  and  into  a 
ravine  that  sank  to  the  road.  There  he  waited  an 
hour,  and  when  another  horseman  passed  he  still 
waited  a  while.  Cautiously  then,  with  ears  alert, 
eyes  straining  through  the  darkness  and  Winches 
ter  ready,  he  went  down  the  road  at  a  slow  walk. 
There  was  a  light  in  the  first  house,  but  the  front 
door  was  closed  and  the  road  was  deep  with  sand, 

52 


THE  TRAIL  OF  THE  LONESOME  PINE 

as  he  knew;  so  he  passed  noiselessly.  At  the 
second  house,  light  streamed  through  the  open 
door;  he  could  hear  talking  on  the  porch  and  he 
halted.  He  could  neither  cross  the  river  nor  get 
around  the  house  by  the  rear — the  ridge  was  too 
steep — so  he  drew  off  into  the  bushes,  where  he 
had  to  wait  another  hour  before  the  talking  ceased. 
There  was  only  one  more  house  now  between  him 
and  the  mouth  of  the  creek,  where  he  would  be 
safe,  and  he  made  up  his  mind  to  dash  by  it.  That 
house,  too,  was  lighted  and  the  sound  of  fiddling 
struck  his  ears.  He  would  give  them  a  surprise; 
so  he  gathered  his  reins  and  Winchester  in  his  left 
hand,  drew  his  revolver  with  his  right,  and  within 
thirty  yards  started  his  horse  into  a  run,  yelling 
like  an  Indian  and  firing  his  pistol  in  the  air.  As 
he  swept  by,  two  or  three  figures  dashed  pell-mell 
indoors,  and  he  shouted  derisively: 

"Run,  damn  ye,  run!"  They  were  running  for 
their  guns,  he  knew,  but  the  taunt  would  hurt  and 
he  was  pleased.  As  he  swept  by  the  edge  of  a 
cornfield,  there  was  a  flash  of  light  from  the  base 
of  a  cliff  straight  across,  and  a  bullet  sang  over 
him,  then  another  and  another,  but  he  sped  on, 
cursing  and  yelling  and  shooting  his  own  Win 
chester  up  in  the  air — all  harmless,  useless,  but 
just  to  hurl  defiance  and  taunt  them  with  his 
safety.  His  father's  house  was  not  far  away,  there 
was  no  sound  of  pursuit,  and  when  he  reached  the 
river  he  drew  down  to  a  walk  and  stopped  short  in 

53 


THE  TRAIL  OF  THE  LONESOME  PINE 

a  shadow.  Something  had  clicked  in  the  bushes 
above  him  and  he  bent  over  his  saddle  and  lay 
close  to  his  horse's  neck.  The  moon  was  rising 
behind  him  and  its  light  was  creeping  toward 
him  through  the  bushes.  In  a  moment  he  would 
be  full  in  its  yellow  light,  and  he  was  slipping  from 
his  horse  to  dart  aside  into  the  bushes,  when  a 
voice  ahead  of  him  called  sharply: 

"That  you,  Dave?" 

It  was  his  father,  and  the  boy's  answer  was  a 
loud  laugh.  Several  men  stepped  from  the  bushes 
— they  had  heard  firing  and,  fearing  that  young 
Dave  was  the  cause  of  it,  they  had  run  to  his  help. 

"What  the  hell  you  mean,  boy,  kickin'  up  such 
a  racket?" 

"Oh,  I  knowed  somethin'd  happened  an'  I 
wanted  to  skeer  'em  a  leetle." 

"Yes,  an'  you  never  thought  o'  the  trouble  you 
might  be  causin'  us." 

"Don't  you  bother  about  me.  I  can  take  keer 
o'  myself." 

Old  Dave  Tolliver  grunted — though  at  heart 
he  was  deeply  pleased. 

"Well,  you  come  on  home!" 

All  went  silently — the  boy  getting  meagre  mono 
syllabic  answers  to  his  eager  questions  but,  by  the 
time  they  reached  home,  he  had  gathered  the  story 
of  what  had  happened  in  town  that  day.  There 
were  more  men  in  the  porch  of  the  house  and  all 
were  armed.  The  women  of  the  house  moved 

54 


THE  TRAIL  OF  THE  LONESOME  PINE 

about  noiselessly  and  with  drawn  faces.  There 
were  no  lights  lit,  and  nobody  stood  long  even  in 
the  light  of  the  fire  where  he  could  be  seen  through 
a  window;  and  doors  were  opened  and  passed 
through  quickly.  The  Falins  had  opened  the  feud 
that  day,  for  the  boy's  foster-uncle,  Bad  Rufe 
Tolliver,  contrary  to  the  terms  of  the  last  truce, 
had  come  home  from  the  West,  and  one  of  his 
kinsmen  had  been  wounded.  The  boy  told  what 
he  had  heard  while  he  lay  over  the  road  along 
which  some  of  his  enemies  had  passed  and  his 
father  nodded.  The  Falins  had  learned  in  some 
way  that  the  lad  was  going  to  the  Gap  that  day 
and  had  sent  men  after  him.  Who  was  the  spy  ? 

"You  told  me  you  was  a-goin'  to  the  Gap," 
said  old  Dave.  "  Whar  was  ye  ?" 

"  I  didn't  git  that  far,"  said  the  boy. 

The  old  man  and  Loretta,  young  Dave's  sister, 
laughed,  and  quiet  smiles  passed  between  the 
others. 

"Well,  you'd  better  be  keerful  'bout  gittin'  even 
as  far  as  you  did  git — wharever  that  was — from 


now  on.'3 


"I  ain't  afeered,"  the  boy  said  sullenly,  and  he 
turned  into  the  kitchen.  Still  sullen,  he  ate  his 
supper  in  silence  and  his  mother  asked  him  no 
questions.  He  was  worried  that  Bad  Rufe  had 
come  back  to  the  mountains,  for  Rufe  was  always 
teasing  June  and  there  was  something  in  his  bold, 
black  eyes  that  made  the  lad  furious,  even  when 

55 


THE  TRAIL  OF  THE  LONESOME  PINE 

the  foster-uncle  was  looking  at  Loretta  or  the  little 
girl  in  Lonesome  Cove.  And  yet  that  was  nothing 
to  his  new  trouble,  for  his  mind  hung  persistently 
to  the  stranger  and  to  the  way  June  had  behaved 
in  the  cabin  in  Lonesome  Cove.  Before  he  went 
to  bed,  he  slipped  out  to  the  old  well  behind  the 
house  and  sat  on  the  water-trough  in  gloomy  un 
rest,  looking  now  and  then  at  the  stars  that  hung 
over  the  Cove  and  over  the  Gap  beyond,  where  the 
stranger  was  bound.  It  would  have  pleased  him 
a  good  deal  could  he  have  known  that  the  stranger 
was  pushing  his  big  black  horse  on  his  way,  under 
those  stars,  toward  the  outer  world. 


IX 

TT  was  court  day  at  the  county  seat  across  the 
A  Kentucky  line.  Hale  had  risen  early,  as  every 
one  must  if  he  would  get  his  breakfast  in  the 
mountains,  even  in  the  hotels  in  the  county  seats, 
and  he  sat  with  his  feet  on  the  railing  of  the  hotel 
porch  which  fronted  the  main  street  of  the  town. 
He  had  had  his  heart-breaking  failures  since  the 
autumn  before,  but  he  was  in  good  cheer  now,  for 
his  feverish  enthusiasm  had  at  last  clutched  a 
man  who  would  take  up  not  only  his  options  on 
the  great  Gap  beyond  Black  Mountain  but  on  the 
cannel-coal  lands  of  Devil  Judd  Tolliver  as  well. 
He  was  riding  across  from  the  Bluegrass  to  meet 
this  man  at  the  railroad  in  Virginia,  nearly  two 
hundred  miles  away;  he  had  stopped  to  examine 
some  titles  at  the  county  seat  and  he  meant  to  go 
on  that  day  by  way  of  Lonesome  Cove.  Opposite 
was  the  brick  Court  House — every  window  lack 
ing  at  least  one  pane,  the  steps  yellow  with  dirt 
and  tobacco  juice,  the  doorway  and  the  bricks 
about  the  upper  windows  bullet-dented  and  elo 
quent  with  memories  of  the  feud  which  had  long 
embroiled  the  whole  county.  Not  that  everybody 
took  part  in  it  but,  on  the  matter,  everybody,  as 

57 


THE  TRAIL  OF  THE  LONESOME  KNE 

an  old  woman  told  him,  "had  feelin's."  It  had 
begun,  so  he  learned,  just  after  the  war.  Two 
boys  were  playing  marbles  in  the  road  along  the 
Cumberland  River,  and  one  had  a  patch  on  the 
seat  of  his  trousers.  The  other  boy  made  fun  of  it 
and  the  boy  with  the  patch  went  home  and  told 
his  father.  As  a  result  there  had  already  been 
thirty  years  of  local  war.  In  the  last  race  for  legis 
lature,  political  issues  were  submerged  and  the 
feud  was  the  sole  issue.  And  a  Tolliver  had  car 
ried  that  boy's  trouser-patch  like  a  flag  to  victory 
and  was  sitting  in  the  lower  House  at  that  time 
helping  to  make  laws  for  the  rest  of  the  State. 
Now  Bad  Rufe  Tolliver  was  in  the  hills  again  and 
the  end  was  not  yet.  Already  people  were  pour 
ing  in,  men,  women  and  children — the  men 
slouch-hatted  and  stalking  through  the  mud  in 
the  rain,  or  filing  in  on  horseback — riding  double 
sometimes — two  men  or  two  women,  or  a  man 
with  his  wife  or  daughter  behind  him,  or  a  woman 
with  a  baby  in  her  lap  and  two  more  children  be 
hind — all  dressed  in  homespun  or  store-clothes, 
and  the  paint  from  artificial  flowers  on  her  hat 
streaking  the  face  of  every  girl  who  had  unwisely 
scanned  the  heavens  that  morning.  Soon  the 
square  was  filled  with  hitched  horses,  and  an 
auctioneer  was  bidding  off  cattle,  sheep,  hogs  and 
horses  to  the  crowd  of  mountaineers  about  him, 
while  the  women  sold  eggs  and  butter  and  bought 
things  for  use  at  home.  Now  and  then,  an  open 

58 


THE  TRAIL  OF  THE  LONESOME  PINE 

feudsman  with  a  Winchester  passed  and  many  a 
man  was  belted  with  cartridges  for  the  big  pistol 
dangling  at  his  hip.  When  court  opened,  the  rain 
ceased,  the  sun  came  out  and  Hale  made  his  way 
through  the  crowd  to  the  battered  temple  of  jus 
tice.  On  one  corner  of  the  square  he  could  see  the 
chief  store  of  the  town  marked  "Buck  Falin — 
General  Merchandise,"  and  the  big  man  in  the 
door  with  the  bushy  redhead,  he  guessed,  was  the 
leader  of  the  Falin  clan.  Outside  the  door  stood 
a  smaller  replica  of  the  same  figure,  whom  he  rec 
ognized  as  the  leader  of  the  band  that  had  nearly 
ridden  him  down  at  the  Gap  when  they  were  look 
ing  for  young  Dave  Tolliver,  the  autumn  before. 
That,  doubtless,  was  young  Buck.  For  a  moment 
he  stood  at  the  door  of  the  court-room.  A  Falin 
was  on  trial  and  the  grizzled  judge  was  speaking 
angrily : 

"This  is  the  third  time  you've  had  this  trial 
postponed  because  you  hain't  got  no  lawyer.  I 
ain't  goin'  to  put  it  off.  Have  you  got  you  a  law 
yer  now?" 

"Yes,  jedge,"  said  the  defendant. 

"Well,  wharishe?" 

"Over  thar  on  the  jury." 

The  judge  looked  at  the  man  on  the  jury. 

"Well,  I  reckon  you  better  leave  him  whar  he  is. 
He'll  do  you  more  good  thar  than  any  whar  else." 

Hale  laughed  aloud — the  judge  glared  at  him 
and  he  turned  quickly  upstairs  to  his  work  in  the 

59 


THE  TRAIL  OF  THE  LONESOME  PINE 

deed-room.  Till  noon  he  worked  and  yet  there 
was  no  trouble.  After  dinner  he  went  back  and 
in  two  hours  his  work  was  done.  An  atmospheric 
difference  he  felt  as  soon  as  he  reached  the  door. 
The  crowd  had  melted  from  the  square.  There 
were  no  women  in  sight,  but  eight  armed  men 
were  in  front  of  the  door  and  two  of  them,  a  red 
Falin  and  a  black  Tolliver — Bad  Rufe  it  was — 
were  quarrelling.  In  every  doorway  stood  a  man 
cautiously  looking  on,  and  in  a  hotel  window  he 
saw  a  woman's  frightened  face.  It  was  so  still 
that  it  seemed  impossible  that  a  tragedy  could  be 
imminent,  and  yet,  while  he  was  trying  to  take  the 
conditions  in,  one  of  the  quarrelling  men — Bad 
Rufe  Tolliver — whipped  out  his  revolver  and  be 
fore  he  could  level  it,  a  Falin  struck  the  muzzle  of 
a  pistol  into  his  back.  Another  Tolliver  flashed 
his  weapon  on  the  Falin.  This  Tolliver  was  cov 
ered  by  another  Falin  and  in  so  many  flashes  of 
lightning  the  eight  men  in  front  of  him  were  cov 
ering  each  other — every  man  afraid  to  be  the  first 
to  shoot,  since  he  knew  that  the  flash  of  his  own 
pistol  meant  instantaneous  death  for  him.  As 
Hale  shrank  back,  he  pushed  against  somebody 
who  thrust  him  aside.  It  was  the  judge: 

"Why  don't  somebody  shoot?"  he  asked  sar 
castically.  "You're  a  purty  set  o'  fools,  ain't  you  ? 
I  want  you  all  to  stop  this  damned  foolishness. 
Now  when  I  give  the  word  I  want  you,  Jim  Falin 
and  Rufe  Tolliver  thar,  to  drap  yer  guns." 

60 


THE  TRAIL  OF  THE  LONESOME  PINE 

Already  Rufe  was  grinning  like  a  devil  over  the 
absurdity  of  the  situation. 

"Now!"  said  the  judge,  and  the  two  guns  were 
dropped. 

"Put  'em  in  yo'  pockets." 

They  did. 

"Drap!"  All  dropped  and,  with  those  two,  all 
put  up  their  guns — each  man,  however,  watching 
now  the  man  who  had  just  been  covering  him.  It 
is  not  wise  for  the  stranger  to  show  too  much  in 
terest  in  the  personal  affairs  of  mountain  men,  and 
Hale  left  the  judge  berating  them  and  went  to  the 
hotel  to  get  ready  for  the  Gap,  little  dreaming  how 
fixed  the  faces  of  some  of  those  men  were  in  his 
brain  and  how,  later,  they  were  to  rise  in  his 
memory  again.  His  horse  was  lame — but  he 
must  go  on:  so  he  hired  a  "yaller"  mule  from  the 
landlord,  and  when  the  beast  was  brought  around, 
he  overheard  two  men  talking  at  the  end  of  the  porch. 

"You  don't  mean  to  say  they've  made  peace?" 

"Yes,  Rufe's  going  away  agin  and  they  shuk 
hands — all  of  'em."  The  other  laughed. 

"Rufe  ain't  gone  yitf" 

The  Cumberland  River  was  rain-swollen.  The 
home-going  people  were  helping  each  other  across 
it  and,  as  Hale  approached  the  ford  of  a  creek  half 
a  mile  beyond  the  river,  a  black-haired  girl  was 
standing  on  a  boulder  looking  helplessly  at  the 
yellow  water,  and  two  boys  were  on  the  ground 
below  her.  One  of  them  looked  up  at  Hale: 

6l 


THE  TRAIL  OF  THE  LONESOME  PINE 

"I  wish  ye'd  help  this  lady  'cross." 

"Certainly,"  said  Hale,  and  the  girl  giggled 
when  he  laboriously  turned  his  old  mule  up  to  the 
boulder.  Not  accustomed  to  have  ladies  ride  be 
hind  him,  Hale  had  turned  the  wrong  side.  Again 
he  laboriously  wheeled  about  and  then  into  the  yel 
low  torrent  he  went  with  the  girl  behind  him,  the 
old  beast  stumbling  over  the  stones,  whereat  the 
girl,  unafraid,  made  sounds  of  much  merriment. 
Across,  Hale  stopped  and  said  courteously: 

"If  you  are  going  up  this  way,  you  are  quite 
welcome  to  ride  on." 

"Well,  I  wasn't  crossin'  that  crick  jes'  exactly 
fer  fun,"  said  the  girl  demurely,  and  then  she 
murmured  something  about  her  cousins  and  looked 
back.  They  had  gone  down  to  a  shallower  ford, 
and  when  they,  too,  had  waded  across,  they  said 
nothing  and  the  girl  said  nothing — so  Hale  started 
on,  the  two  boys  following.  The  mule  was  slow 
and,  being  in  a  hurry,  Hale  urged  him  with  his 
whip.  Every  time  he  struck,  the  beast  would  kick 
up  and  once  the  girl  came  near  going  off. 

"You  must  watch  out,  when  I  hit  him,"  said 
Hale. 

"I  don't  know  when  you're  goin'  to  hit  him," 
she  drawled  unconcernedly. 

"Well,  I'll  let  you  know,"  said  Hale  laughing. 
"Now!"  And,  as  he  whacked  the  beast  again, 
the  girl  laughed  and  they  were  better  acquainted. 
Presently  they  passed  two  boys.  Hale  was  wear- 

62 


THE  TRAIL  OF  THE  LONESOME  PINE 

ing  riding-boots  and  tight  breeches,  and  one  of  the 
boys  ran  his  eyes  up  boot  and  leg  and  if  they  were 
lifted  higher,  Hale  could  not  tell. 

"  Whar'd  you  git  him  ?"  he  squeaked. 

The  girl  turned  her  head  as  the  mule  broke  into 
a  trot. 

"Ain't  got  time  to  tell.  They  are  my  cous 
ins,"  explained  the  girl. 

"What  is  your  name  ?"  asked  Hale. 

"Loretty  Tolliver."    Hale  turned  in  his  saddle. 

"Are  you  the  daughter  of  Dave  Tolliver  ?" 

"Yes." 

"Then  youVe  got  a  brother  named  Dave?" 

"Yes."  This,  then,  was  the  sister  of  the  black- 
haired  boy  he  had  seen  in  the  Lonesome  Cove. 

"Haven't  you  got  some  kinfolks  over  the 
mountain  ?" 

"Yes,  I  got  an  uncle  livin'  over  thar.  Devil 
Judd,  folks  calls  him,"  said  the  girl  simply.  This 
girl  was  cousin  to  little  June  in  Lonesome  Cove. 
Every  now  and  then  she  would  look  behind  them, 
and  when  Hale  turned  again  inquiringly  she  ex 
plained: 

"I'm  worried  about  my  cousins  back  thar. 
I'm  afeered  somethin'  mought  happen  to  'em." 

"Shall  we  wait  for  them  ?" 

"Oh,  no — I  reckon  not." 

Soon  they  overtook  two  men  on  horseback,  and 
after  they  passed  and  were  fifty  yards  ahead  of 
them,  one  of  the  men  lifted  his  voice  jestingly: 

63 


THE  TRAIL  OF  THE  LONESOME  PINE 

"Is  that  your  woman,  stranger,  or  have  you  just 
borrowed  her?"  Hale  shouted  back: 

"No,  I'm  sorry  to  say,  I've  just  borrowed  her," 
and  he  turned  to  see  how  she  would  take  this  an 
swering  pleasantry.  She  was  looking  down  shyly 
and  she  did  not  seem  much  pleased. 

"They  are  kinfolks  o'  mine,  too,"  she  said,  and 
whether  it  was  in  explanation  or  as  a  rebuke,  Hale 
could  not  determine. 

"You  must  be  kin  to  everybody  around  here?" 

"Most  everybody,"  she  said  simply. 

By  and  by  they  came  to  a  creek. 

"  I  have  to  turn  up  here,"  said  Hale. 

"So  do  I,"  she  said,  smiling  now  directly  at 
him. 

"Good!"  he  said,  and  they  went  on — Hale  ask 
ing  more  questions.  She  was  going  to  school  at 
the  county  seat  the  coming  winter  and  she  was 
fifteen  years  old. 

"That's  right.  The  trouble  in  the  mountains  is 
that  you  girls  marry  so  early  that  you  don't  have 
time  to  get  an  education."  She  wasn't  going  to 
marry  early,  she  said,  but  Hale  learned  now  that 
she  had  a  sweetheart  who  had  been  in  town  that 
day  and  apparently  the  two  had  had  a  quarrel. 
Who  it  was,  she  would  not  tell,  and  Hale  would 
have  been  amazed  had  he  known  the  sweetheart 
was  none  other  than  young  Buck  Falin  and  that 
the  quarrel  between  the  lovers  had  sprung  from 
the  opening  quarrel  that  day  between  the  clans. 


THE  TRAIL  OF  THE  LONESOME  PINE 

Once  again  she  came  near  going  off  the  mule,  and 
Hale  observed  that  she  was  holding  to  the  cantel 
of  his  saddle. 

"Look  here,"  he  said  suddenly,  "hadn't  you 
better  catch  hold  of  me?"  She  shook  her  head 
vigorously  and  made  two  not-to-be-rendered  sounds 
that  meant: 

"No,  indeed." 

"Well,  if  this  were  your  sweetheart  you'd  take 
hold  of  him,  wouldn't  you  ?" 

Again  she  gave  a  vigorous  shake  of  the  head. 

"Well,  if  he  saw  you  riding  behind  me,  he 
wouldn't  like  it,  would  he  ?" 

"She  didn't  keer,"  she  said,  but  Hale  did;  and 
when  he  heard  the  galloping  of  horses  behind 
him,  saw  two  men  coming,  and  heard  one  of  them 
shouting — "Hyeh,  you  man  on  that  yaller  mule, 
stop  thar" — he  shifted  his  revolver,  pulled  in  and 
waited  with  some  uneasiness.  They  came  up, 
reeling  in  their  saddles — neither  one  the  girl's 
sweetheart,  as  he  saw  at  once  from  her  face — and 
began  to  ask  what  the  girl  characterized  after 
ward  as  "unnecessary  questions":  who  he  was, 
who  she  was,  and  where  they  were  going.  Hale 
answered  so  shortly  that  the  girl  thought  there  was 
going  to  be  a  fight,  and  she  was  on  the  point  of 
slipping  from  the  mule. 

"Sit  still,"  said  Hale,  quietly.  "There's  not 
going  to  be  a  fight  so  long  as  you  are  here." 

"Thar  hain't!"  said  one  of  the  men.     "Well" 

65 


THE  TRAIL  OF  THE  LONESOME  PINE 

— then  he  looked  sharply  at  the  girl  and  turned  his 
horse — "Come  on,  Bill — that's  ole  Dave  Tolli- 
ver's  gal."  The  girl's  face  was  on  fire. 

"Them  mean  Falins!"  she  said  contemptu 
ously,  and  somehow  the  mere  fact  that  Hale  had 
been  even  for  the  moment  antagonistic  to  the  other 
faction  seemed  to  put  him  in  the  girl's  mind  at 
once  on  her  side,  and  straightway  she  talked 
freely  of  the  feud.  Devil  Judd  had  taken  no  active 
part  in  it  for  a  long  time,  she  said,  except  to  keep 
it  down — especially  since  he  and  her  father  had 
had  a  "fallin'  out"  and  the  two  families  did  not 
visit  much — though  she  and  her  cousin  June 
sometimes  spent  the  night  with  each  other. 

"You  won't  be  able  to  git  over  thar  till  long 
atter  dark,"  she  said,  and  she  caught  her  breath 
so  suddenly  and  so  sharply  that  Hale  turned  to  see 
what  the  matter  was.  She  searched  his  face  with 
her  black  eyes,  which  were  like  June's  without  the 
depths  of  June's. 

"I  was  just  a-wonderin'  if  mebbe  you  wasn't 
the  same  feller  that  was  over  in  Lonesome  last 
fall." 

"Maybe  I  am — my  name's  Hale."  The  girl 
laughed.  "Well,  if  this  ain't  the  beatenest!  I've 
heerd  June  talk  about  you.  My  brother  Dave 
don't  like  you  overmuch,"  she  added  frankly. 
"I  reckon  we'll  see  Dave  purty  soon.  If  this  ain't 
the  beatenest!"  she  repeated,  and  she  laughed 
again,  as  she  always  did  laugh,  it  seemed  to  Hale, 

66 


THE  TRAIL  OF  THE  LONESOME  PINE 

when  there  was  any  prospect  of  getting  him  into 
trouble. 

"You  can't  git  over  thar  till  long  atter  dark," 
she  said  again  presently. 

"  Is  there  any  place  on  the  way  where  I  can  get 
to  stay  all  night  ? " 

"You  can  stay  all  night  with  the  Red  Fox  on 
top  of  the  mountain." 

"The  Red  Fox,"  repeated  Hale. 

"Yes,  he  lives  right  on  top  of  the  mountain. 
You  can't  miss  his  house." 

"Oh,  yes,  I  remember  him.  I  saw  him  talking 
to  one  of  the  Falins  in  town  to-day,  behind  the 
barn,  when  I  went  to  get  my  horse." 

"You — seed — him — a-talkin' — to  a  Falin  afore 
the  trouble  come  up  ? "  the  girl  asked  slowly  and 
with  such  significance  that  Hale  turned  to  look  at 
her.  He  felt  straightway  that  he  ought  not  to  have 
said  that,  and  the  day  was  to  come  when  he  would 
remember  it  to  his  cost.  He  knew  how  foolish  it 
was  for  the  stranger  to  show  sympathy  with,  or 
interest  in,  one  faction  or  another  in  a  mountain 
feud,  but  to  give  any  kind  of  information  of  one  to 
the  other — that  was  unwise  indeed.  Ahead  of 
them  now,  a  little  stream  ran  from  a  ravine  across 
the  road.  Beyond  was  a  cabin;  in  the  doorway 
were  several  faces,  and  sitting  on  a  horse  at  the  gate 
was  young  Dave  Tolliver. 

"Well,  I  git  down  here,"  said  the  girl,  and  before 
his  mule  stopped  she  slid  from  behind  him  and 

6? 


THE  TRAIL  OF  THE  LONESOME  PINE 

made  for  the  gate  without  a  word  of  thanks  or 
good-by. 

"Howdye!"  said  Hale,  taking  in  the  group  with 
his  glance,  but  leaving  his  eyes  on  young  Dave. 
The  rest  nodded,  but  the  boy  was  too  surprised  for 
speech,  and  the  spirit  of  deviltry  took  the  girl 
when  she  saw  her  brother's  face,  and  at  the  gate 
she  turned : 

"Much  obleeged,"  she  said.  "Tell  June  I'm 
a-comin'  over  to  see  her  next  Sunday." 

"I  will,"  said  Hale,  and  he  rode  on.  To  his 
surprise,  when  he  had  gone  a  hundred  yards,  he 
heard  the  boy  spurring  after  him  and  he  looked 
around  inquiringly  as  young  Dave  drew  alongside; 
but  the  boy  said  nothing  and  Hale,  amused,  kept 
still,  wondering  when  the  lad  would  open  speech. 
At  the  mouth  of  another  little  creek  the  boy 
stopped  his  horse  as  though  he  was  to  turn  up  that 
way. 

"You've  come  back  agin,"  he  said,  searching 
Hale's  face  with  his  black  eyes. 

"Yes,"  said  Hale,  "I've  come  back  again." 

"  You  goin'  over  to  Lonesome  Cove  ?" 

"Yes." 

The  boy  hesitated,  and  a  sudden  change  of 
mind  was  plain  to  Hale  in  his  face. 

"  I  wish  you'd  tell  Uncle  Judd  about  the  trouble 
in  town  to-day,"  he  said,  still  looking  fixedly  at 
Hale. 

"Certainly." 

68 


THE  TRAIL  OF  THE  LONESOME  PINE 

"Did  you  tell  the  Red  Fox  that  day  you  seed 
him  when  you  was  goin'  over  to  the  Gap  last  fall 
that  you  seed  me  at  Uncle  Judd's  ?" 

"No,"  said  Hale.  "But  how  did  you  know 
that  I  saw  the  Red  Fox  that  day?"  The  boy 
laughed  unpleasantly. 

"So  long,"  he  said.  "See  you  agin  some  day." 
The  way  was  steep  and  the  sun  was  down  and 
darkness  gathering  before  Hale  reached  the  top  of 
the  mountain — so  he  hallooed  at  the  yard  fence  of 
the  Red  Fox,  who  peered  cautiously  out  of  the 
door  and  asked  his  name  before  he  came  to  the 
gate.  And  there,  with  a  grin  on  his  curious  mis 
matched  face,  he  repeated  young  Dave's  words: 

"You've  come  back  agin."  And  Hale  repeated 
his: 

"Yes,  I've  come  back  again." 
"You  goin'  over  to  Lonesome  Cove  ?" 
"Yes,"  said  Hale  impatiently,  "I'm  going  over 
to  Lonesome  Cove.    Can  I  stay  here  all  night  ?" 

"  Shore ! "  said  the  old  man  hospitably.    "  That's 
a  fine  hoss  you  got  thar,"  he  added  with  a  chuckle. 
"Been    swappin'?"      Hale   had   to   laugh    as   he 
climbed  down  from  the  bony  ear-flopping  beast. 
"I  left  my  horse  in  town — he's  lame." 
"Yes,  I  seed  you  thar."    Hale  could  not  resist: 
"Yes,  and  I  seed  you."     The  old  man  almost 
turned. 

"Whar?"  Again  the  temptation  was  too 
great. 

69 


THE  TRAIL  OF  THE  LONESOME  PINE 

"Talking  to  the  Falin  who  started  the  row." 
This  time  the  Red  Fox  wheeled  sharply  and  his 
pale-blue  eyes  filled  with  suspicion. 

"I  keeps  friends  with  both  sides,"  he  said. 
"Ain't  many  folks  can  do  that." 

"I  reckon  not,"  said  Hale  calmly,  but  in  the 
pale  eyes  he  still  saw  suspicion. 

When  they  entered  the  cabin,  a  little  old  woman 
in  black,  dumb  and  noiseless,  was  cooking  supper. 
The  children  of  the  two,  he  learned,  had  scattered, 
and  they  lived  there  alone.  On  the  mantel  were 
two  pistols  and  in  one  corner  was  the  big  Win 
chester  he  remembered  and  behind  it  was  the  big 
brass  telescope.  On  the  table  was  a  Bible  and 
a  volume  of  Swedenborg,  and  among  the  usual 
strings  of  pepper-pods  and  beans  and  twisted  long 
green  tobacco  were  drying  herbs  and  roots  of  all 
kinds,  and  about  the  fireplace  were  bottles  of 
liquids  that  had  been  stewed  from  them.  The 
little  old  woman  served,  and  opened  her  lips  not 
at  all.  Supper  was  eaten  with  no  further  refer 
ence  to  the  doings  in  town  that  day,  and  no  word 
was  said  about  their  meeting  when  Hale  first 
went  to  Lonesome  Cove  until  they  were  smoking 
on  the  porch. 

"I  heerd  you  found  some  mighty  fine  coal  over 
in  Lonesome  Cove." 

"Yes." 

"  Young  Dave  Tolliver  thinks  you  found  some- 
thin'  else  thar,  too,"  chuckled  the  Red  Fox. 

7° 


THE  TRAIL  OF  THE  LONESOME  PINE 

"I  did,"  said  Hale  coolly,  and  the  old  man 
chuckled  again. 

"She's  a  purty  leetle  gal — shore." 

"Who  is?"  asked  Hale,  looking  calmly  at  his 
questioner,  and  the  Red  Fox  lapsed  into  baffled 
silence. 

The  moon  was  brilliant  and  the  night  was  still. 
Suddenly  the  Red  Fox  cocked  his  ear  like  a  hound, 
and  without  a  word  slipped  swiftly  within  the 
cabin.  A  moment  later  Hale  heard  the  galloping 
of  a  horse  and  from  out  the  dark  woods  loped  a 
horseman  with  a  Winchester  across  his  saddle 
bow.  He  pulled  in  at  the  gate,  but  before  he  could 
shout  "Hello"  the  Red  Fox  had  stepped  from  the 
porch  into  the  moonlight  and  was  going  to  meet 
him.  Hale  had  never  seen  a  more  easy,  graceful, 
daring  figure  on  horseback,  and  in  the  bright  light 
he  could  make  out  the  reckless  face  of  the  man 
who  had  been  the  first  to  flash  his  pistol  in  town 
that  day — Bad  Rufe  Tolliver.  For  ten  minutes 
the  two  talked  in  whispers — Rufe  bent  forward 
with  one  elbow  on  the  withers  of  his  horse  but  lift 
ing  his  eyes  every  now  and  then  to  the  stranger 
seated  in  the  porch — and  then  the  horseman  turned 
with  an  oath  and  galloped  into  the  darkness  whence 
he  came,  while  the  Red  Fox  slouched  back  to  the 
porch  and  dropped  silently  into  his  seat. 

"Who  was  that  ?"  asked  Hale. 

"Bad  Rufe  Tolliver." 

"I've  heard  of  him." 


THE  TRAIL  OF  THE  LONESOME  PINE 

"Most  everybody  in  these  mountains  has. 
He's  the  feller  that's  always  causin'  trouble.  Him 
and  Joe  Falin  agreed  to  go  West  last  fall  to  end 
the  war.  Joe  was  killed  out  thar,  and  now  Rufe 
claims  Joe  don't  count  now  an'  he's  got  the  right 
to  come  back.  Soon's  he  comes  back,  things  git 
frolicksome  agin.  He  swore  he  wouldn't  go  back 
unless  another  Falin  goes  too.  Wirt  Falin  agreed, 
and  that's  how  they  made  peace  to-day.  Now 
Rufe  says  he  won't  go  at  all — truce  or  no  truce. 
My  wife  in  thar  is  a  Tolliver,  but  both  sides  comes 
to  me  and  I  keeps  peace  with  both  of  'em." 

No  doubt  he  did,  Hale  thought,  keep  peace  or 
mischief  with  or  against  anybody  with  that  face  of 
his.  That  was  a  common  type  of  the  bad  man, 
that  horseman  who  had  galloped  away  from  the 
gate — but  this  old  man  with  his  dual  face,  who 
preached  the  Word  on  Sundays  and  on  other  days 
was  a  walking  arsenal;  who  dreamed  dreams  and 
had  visions  and  slipped  through  the  hills  in  his 
mysterious  moccasins  on  errands  of  mercy  or 
chasing  men  from  vanity,  personal  enmity  or  for 
fun,  and  still  appeared  so  sane — he  was  a  type  that 
confounded.  No  wonder  for  these  reasons  and  as 
a  tribute  to  his  infernal  shrewdness  he  was  known 
far  and  wide  as  the  Red  Fox  of  the  Mountains. 
But  Hale  was  too  tired  for  further  speculation  and 
presently  he  yawned. 

"  Want  to  lay  down  ? "  asked  the  old  man  quickly. 

"I  think  I  do,"  said  Hale,  and  they  went  inside. 
72 


THE  TRAIL  OF  THE  LONESOME  PINE 

The  little  old  woman  had  her  face  to  the  wall  in  a 
bed  in  one  corner  and  the  Red  Fox  pointed  to  a 
bed  in  the  other: 

"Thar's  yo'  bed."  Again  Hale's  eyes  fell  on 
the  big  Winchester. 

"I  reckon  thar  hain't  more'n  two  others  like  it 
in  all  these  mountains." 

"What's  the  calibre?" 

"Biggest  made,"  was  the  answer,  "a  50  x  75." 

"Centre  fire?" 

"Rim,"  said  the  Red  Fox. 

"Gracious,"  laughed  Hale,  "what  do  you  want 
such  a  big  one  for  ?" 

"Man  cannot  live  by  bread  alone — in  these 
mountains,"  said  the  Red  Fox  grimly. 

When  Hale  lay  down  he  could  hear  the  old  man 
quavering  out  a  hymn  or  two  on  the  porch  out 
side:  and  when,  worn  out  with  the  day,  he  went 
to  sleep,  the  Red  Fox  was  reading  his  Bible  by  the 
light  of  a  tallow  dip.  It  is  fatefully  strange  when 
people,  whose  lives  tragically  intersect,  look  back 
to  their  first  meetings  with  one  another,  and  Hale 
never  forgot  that  night  in  the  cabin  of  the  Red 
Fox.  For  had  Bad  Rufe  Tolliver,  while  he  whis 
pered  at  the  gate,  known  the  part  the  quiet  young 
man  silently  seated  in  the  porch  would  play  in  his 
life,  he  would  have  shot  him  where  he  sat:  and 
could  the  Red  Fox  have  known  the  part  his  sleep 
ing  guest  was  to  play  in  his,  the  old  man  would 
have  knifed  him  where  he  lay. 

73 


TIT  ALE  opened  his  eyes  next  morning  on  the 
A  A  little  old  woman  in  black,  moving  ghost-like 
through  the  dim  interior  to  the  kitchen.  A  wood- 
thrush  was  singing  when  he  stepped  out  on  the 
porch  and  its  cool  notes  had  the  liquid  freshness 
of  the  morning.  Breakfast  over,  he  concluded  to 
leave  the  yellow  mule  with  the  Red  Fox  to  be 
taken  back  to  the  county  town,  and  to  walk  down 
the  mountain,  but  before  he  got  away  the  land 
lord's  son  turned  up  with  his  own  horse,  still  lame, 
but  well  enough  to  limp  along  without  doing  him 
self  harm.  So,  leading  the  black  horse,  Hale 
started  down. 

The  sun  was  rising  over  still  seas  of  white  mist 
and  wave  after  wave  of  blue  Virginia  hills.  In 
the  shadows  below,  it  smote  the  mists  into  tatters; 
leaf  and  bush  glittered  as  though  after  a  heavy 
rain,  and  down  Hale  went  under  a  trembling  dew- 
drenched  world  and  along  a  tumbling  series  of 
water-falls  that  flashed  through  tall  ferns,  blos 
soming  laurel  and  shining  leaves  of  rhododendron. 
Once  he  heard  something  move  below  him  and 
then  the  crackling  of  brush  sounded  far  to  one 
side  of  the  road.  He  knew  it  was  a  man  who  would 

74 


THE  TRAIL  OF  THE  LONESOME  PINE 

be  watching  him  from  a  covert  and,  straightway, 
to  prove  his  innocence  of  any  hostile  or  secret  pur 
pose,  he  began  to  whistle.  Farther  below,  two 
men  with  Winchesters  rose  from  the  bushes  and 
asked  his  name  and  his  business.  He  told  both 
readily.  Everybody,  it  seemed,  was  prepared  for 
hostilities  and,  though  the  news  of  the  patched-up 
peace  had  spread,  it  was  plain  that  the  factions 
were  still  suspicious  and  on  guard.  Then  the 
loneliness  almost  of  Lonesome  Cove  itself  set  in. 
For  miles  he  saw  nothing  alive  but  an  occasional 
bird  and  heard  no  sound  but  of  running  water  or 
rustling  leaf.  At  the  mouth  of  the  creek  his 
horse's  lameness  had  grown  so  much  better  that  he 
mounted  him  and  rode  slowly  up  the  river.  With 
in  an  hour  he  could  see  the  still  crest  of  the  Lone 
some  Pine.  At  the  mouth  of  a  creek  a  mile  farther 
on  was  an  old  gristmill  with  its  water-wheel  asleep, 
and  whittling  at  the  door  outside  was  the  old  mil 
ler,  Uncle  Billy  Beams,  who,  when  he  heard  the 
coming  of  the  black  horse's  feet,  looked  up  and 
showed  no  surprise  at  all  when  he  saw  Hale. 

"I  heard  you  was  comin',"  he  shouted,  hailing 
him  cheerily  by  name.  "Ain't  fishin'  this  time!" 

"No,"  said  Hale,  "not  this  time." 

"Well,  git  down  and  rest  a  spell.  June'll  be 
here  in  a  minute  an'  you  can  ride  back  with  her. 
I  reckon  you  air  goin'  that  a-way." 

"June!" 

"Shore!     My,   but   she'll   be   glad   to   see  ye! 

75 


THE  TRAIL  OF  THE  LONESOME  PINE 

She's  always  talkin'  about  ye.  You  told  her  you 
was  comin'  back  an'  ever'body  told  her  you 
wasn't:  but  that  leetle  gal  al'ays  said  she  knowed 
you  was,  because  you  said  you  was.  She's  growed 
some — an'  if  she  ain't  purty,  well  I'd  tell  a  man! 
You  jes'  tie  yo'  hoss  up  thar  behind  the  mill  so 
she  can't  see  it,  an'  git  inside  the  mill  when  she 
comes  round  that  bend  thar.  My,  but  hit'll  be  a 
surprise  fer  her." 

The  old  man  chuckled  so  cheerily  that  Hale,  to 
humour  him,  hitched  his  horse  to  a  sapling,  came 
back  and  sat  in  the  door  of  the  mill.  The  old  man 
knew  all  about  the  trouble  in  town  the  day  before. 

"I  want  to  give  ye  a  leetle  advice.  Keep  yo' 
mouth  plum'  shut  about  this  here  war.  I'm  Jestice 
of  the  Peace,  but  that's  the  only  way  I've  kept 
outen  of  it  fer  thirty  years;  an'  hit's  the  only  way 
you  can  keep  outen  it." 

"Thank  you,  I  mean  to  keep  my  mouth  shut, 
but  would  you  mind " 

"Git  in!"  interrupted  the  old  man  eagerly. 
"Hyeh  she  comes."  His  kind  old  face  creased 
into  a  welcoming  smile,  and  between  the  logs  of 
the  mill  Hale,  inside,  could  see  an  old  sorrel  horse 
slowly  coming  through  the  lights  and  shadows 
down  the  road.  On  its  back  was  a  sack  of  corn 
and  perched  on  the  sack  was  a  little  girl  with  her 
bare  feet  in  the  hollows  behind  the  old  nag's  with 
ers.  She  was  looking  sidewise,  quite  hidden  by 
a  scarlet  poke-bonnet,  and  at  the  old  man's  shout 

76 


THE  TRAIL  OF  THE  LONESOME  PINE 

she  turned  the  smiling  face  of  little  June.  With 
an  answering  cry,  she  struck  the  old  nag  with  a 
switch  and  before  the  old  man  could  rise  to  help 
her  down,  slipped  lightly  to  the  ground. 

"Why,  honey,"  he  said,  "I  don't  know  whut 
I'm  goin'  to  do  'bout  yo'  corn.  Shaft's  broke  an' 
I  can't  do  no  grindin'  till  to-morrow." 

"Well,  Uncle  Billy,  we  ain't  got  a  pint  o'  meal 
in  the  house,"  she  said.  "You  jes'  got  to  lend 


me  some." 


"All  right,  honey,"  said  the  old  man,  and  he 
cleared  his  throat  as  a  signal  for  Hale. 

The  little  girl  was  pushing  her  bonnet  back 
when  Hale  stepped  into  sight  and,  unstartled,  un 
smiling,  unspeaking,  she  looked  steadily  at  him — 
one  hand  motionless  for  a  moment  on  her  bronze 
heap  of  hair  and  then  slipping  down  past  her 
cheek  to  clench  the  other  tightly.  Uncle  Billy 
was  bewildered. 

"Why,  June,  hit's  Mr.  Hale— why- 

"Howdye,  June!"  said  Hale,  who  was  no  less 
puzzled — and  still  she  gave  no  sign  that  she  had 
ever  seen  him  before  except  reluctantly  to  give  him 
her  hand.  Then  she  turned  sullenly  away  and 
sat  down  in  the  door  of  the  mill  with  her  elbows 
on  her  knees  and  her  chin  in  her  hands. 

Dumfounded,  the  old  miller  pulled  the  sack  of 
corn  from  the  horse  and  leaned  it  against  the  mill. 
Then  he  took  out  his  pipe,  rilled  and  lighted  it 
slowly  and  turned  his  perplexed  eyes  to  the  sun. 

77 


THE  TRAIL  OF  THE  LONESOME  PINE 

"Well,  honey,"  he  said,  as  though  he  were  do 
ing  the  best  he  could  with  a  difficult  situation, 
"  I'll  have  to  git  you  that  meal  at  the  house.  'Bout 
dinner  time  now.  You  an'  Mr.  Hale  thar  come 
on  and  git  somethin'  to  eat  afore  ye  go  back." 

"  I  got  to  get  on  back  home,"  said  June,  rising. 

"No  you  ain't — I  bet  you  got  dinner  fer  yo' 
step-mammy  afore  you  left,  an'  I  jes'  know  you 
was  aimin'  to  take  a  snack  with  me  an'  ole  Hon." 
The  little  girl  hesitated — she  had  no  denial — and 
the  old  fellow  smiled  kindly. 

"Come  on,  now." 

Little  June  walked  on  the  other  side  of  the 
miller  from  Hale  back  to  the  old  man's  cabin,  two 
hundred  yards  up  the  road,  answering  his  ques 
tions  but  not  Hale's  and  never  meeting  the  latter's 
eyes  with  her  own.  "ole  Hon,"  the  portly  old 
woman  whom  Hale  remembered,  with  brass- 
rimmed  spectacles  and  a  clay  pipe  in  her  mouth, 
came  out  on  the  porch  and  welcomed  them  heartily 
under  the  honeysuckle  vines.  Her  mouth  and 
face  were  alive  with  humour  when  she  saw  Hale, 
and  her  eyes  took  in  both  him  and  the  little  girl 
keenly.  The  miller  and  Hale  leaned  chairs 
against  the  wall  while  the  girl  sat  at  the  entrance 
of  the  porch.  Suddenly  Hale  went  out  to  his 
horse  and  took  out  a  package  from  his  saddle- 
pockets. 

"I've  got  some  candy  in  here  for  you,"  he  said 
smiling. 

78 


THE  TRAIL  OF  THE  LONESOME  PINE 

"I  don't  want  no  candy,"  she  said,  still  not 
looking  at  him  and  with  a  little  movement  of  her 
knees  away  from  him. 

"Why,  honey,"  said  Uncle  Billy  again,  "whut 
is  the  matter  with  ye  ?  I  thought  ye  was  great 
friends."  The  little  girl  rose  hastily. 

"No,  we  ain't,  nuther,"  she  said,  and  she  whisked 
herself  indoors.  Hale  put  the  package  back  with 
some  embarrassment  and  the  old  miller  laughed. 

"Well,  well — she's  a  quar  little  critter;  mebbe 
she's  mad  because  you  stayed  away  so  long." 

At  the  table  June  wanted  to  help  ole  Hon  and 
wait  to  eat  with  her,  but  Uncle  Billy  made  her  sit 
down  with  him  and  Hale,  and  so  shy  was  she  that 
she  hardly  ate  anything.  Once  only  did  she  look 
up  from  her  plate  and  that  was  when  Uncle  Billy, 
with  a  shake  of  his  head,  said: 

"He's  a  bad  un."  He  was  speaking  of  Rufe 
Tolliver,  and  at  the  mention  of  his  name  there  was 
a  frightened  look  in  the  little  girl's  eyes,  when  she 
quickly  raised  them,  that  made  Hale  wonder. 

An  hour  later  they  were  riding  side  by  side — 
Hale  and  June — on  through  the  lights  and  shad 
ows  toward  Lonesome  Cove.  Uncle  Billy  turned 
back  from  the  gate  to  the  porch. 

"He  ain't  come  back  hyeh  jes'  fer  coal,"  said 
ole  Hon. 

"Shucks!"  said  Uncle  Billy;  "you  women 
folks  can't  think  'bout  nothin'  'cept  one  thing. 
He's  too  old  fer  her." 

79 


THE  TRAIL  OF  THE  LONESOME  PINE 

"She'll  git  ole  enough  fer  him — an*  you  men- 
folks  don't  think  less — you  jes'  talk  less."  And 
she  went  back  into  the  kitchen,  and  on  the  porch 
the  old  miller  puffed  on  a  new  idea  in  his  pipe. 

For  a  few  minutes  the  two  rode  in  silence  and 
not  yet  had  June  lifted  her  eyes  to  him. 

"  You've  forgotten  me,  June." 

"No,  I  hain't,  nuther." 

"You  said  you'd  be  waiting  for  me."  June's 
lashes  went  lower  still. 

"I  was." 

"Well,  what's  the  matter?  I'm  mighty  sorry 
I  couldn't  get  back  sooner." 

"Huh!"  said  June  scornfully,  and  he  knew 
Uncle  Billy  in  his  guess  as  to  the  trouble  was  far 
afield,  and  so  he  tried  another  tack. 

"I've  been  over  to  the  county  seat  and  I  saw 
lots  of  your  kinfolks  over  there."  She  showed 
no  curiosity,  no  surprise,  and  still  she  did  not  look 
up  at  him. 

"I  met  your  cousin,  Loretta,  over  there  and  I 
carried  her  home  behind  me  on  an  old  mule" — 
Hale  paused,  smiling  at  the  remembrance — and 
still  she  betrayed  no  interest. 

"She's  a  mighty  pretty  girl,  and  whenever  I'd 
hit  that  old " 

"She  hain't!" — the  words  were  so  shrieked  out 
that  Hale  was  bewildered,  and  then  he  guessed 
that  the  falling  out  between  the  fathers  was  more 
serious  than  he  had  supposed. 

80 


THE  TRAIL  OF  THE  LONESOME  PINE 

"But  she  isn't  as  nice  as  you  are,"  he  added 
quickly,  and  the  girl's  quivering  mouth  steadied, 
the  tears  stopped  in  her  vexed  dark  eyes  and  she 
lifted  them  to  him  at  last. 

"She  ain't?" 

"No,  indeed,  she  ain't." 

For  a  while  they  rode  along  again  in  silence. 
June  no  longer  avoided  his  eyes  now,  and  the 
unspoken  question  in  her  own  presently  came 
out: 

"  You  won't  let  Uncle  Rufe  bother  me  no  more, 
will  ye?" 

"No,  indeed,  I  won't,"  said  Hale  heartily. 
"What  does  he  do  to  you  ?" 

"Nothin' — 'cept  he's  always  a-teasin'  me,  an' — 
an'  I'm  afeered  o'  him." 

"Well,  I'll  take  care  of  Uncle  Rufe." 

"I  knowed  youd  say  that,"  she  said.  "Pap 
and  Dave  always  laughs  at  me,"  and  she  shook 
her  head  as  though  she  were  already  threatening 
her  bad  uncle  with  what  Hale  would  do  to  him, 
and  she  was  so  serious  and  trustful  that  Hale  was 
curiously  touched.  By  and  by  he  lifted  one  flap  of 
his  saddle-pockets  again. 

"  I've  got  some  candy  here  for  a  nice  little  girl," 
he  said,  as  though  the  subject  had  not  been  men 
tioned  before.  "It's  for  you.  Won't  you  have 
some?" 

"  I  reckon  I  will,"  she  said  with  a  happy  smile. 
Hale  watched  her  while  she  munched  a  striped 
81 


THE  TRAIL  OF  THE  LONESOME  PINE 

stick  of  peppermint.  Her  crimson  bonnet  had 
fallen  from  her  sunlit  hair  and  straight  down  from 
it  to  her  bare  little  foot  with  its  stubbed  toe  just 
darkening  with  dried  blood,  a  sculptor  would  have 
loved  the  rounded  slenderness  in  the  curving  long 
lines  that  shaped  her  brown  throat,  her  arms  and 
her  hands,  which  were  prettily  shaped  but  so  very 
dirty  as  to  the  nails,  and  her  dangling  bare  leg. 
Her  teeth  were  even  and  white,  and  most  of  them 
flashed  when  her  red  lips  smiled.  Her  lashes  were 
long  and  gave  a  touching  softness  to  her  eyes  even 
when  she  was  looking  quietly  at  him,  but  there 
were  times,  as  he  had  noticed  already,  when  a 
brooding  look  stole  over  them,  and  then  they  were 
the  lair  for  the  mysterious  loneliness  that  was  the 
very  spirit  of  Lonesome  Cove.  Some  day  that 
little  nose  would  be  long  enough,  and  some  day,  he 
thought,  she  would  be  very  beautiful. 

"Your  cousin,  Loretta,  said  she  was  coming 
over  to  see  you." 

June's  teeth  snapped  viciously  through  the  stick 
of  candy  and  then  she  turned  on  him  and  behind 
the  long  lashes  and  deep  down  in  the  depth  of 
those  wonderful  eyes  he  saw  an  ageless  something 
that  bewildered  him  more  than  her  words. 

"I  hate  her,"  she  said  fiercely. 

"Why,  little  girl  ?"  he  said  gently. 

"I  don't  know — "  she  said  —  and  then  the 
tears  came  in  earnest  and  she  turned  her  head, 
sobbing.  Hale  helplessly  reached  over  and  patted 

82 


THE  TRAIL  OF  THE  LONESOME  PINE 

her  on  the  shoulder,  but  she  shrank  away  from 
him. 

"Go  away!"  she  said,  digging  her  fist  into  her 
eyes  until  her  face  was  calm  again. 

They  had  reached  the  spot  on  the  river  where 
he  had  seen  her  first,  and  beyond,  the  smoke  of 
the  cabin  was  rising  above  the  undergrowth. 

"Lordy!"  she  said,  "but  I  do  git  lonesome  over 
hyeh." 

"Wouldn't  you  like  to  go  over  to  the  Gap  with 
me  sometimes?" 

Straightway  her  face  was  a  ray  of  sunlight. 

"Would — I  like — to — go — over " 

She  stopped  suddenly  and  pulled  in  her  horse, 
but  Hale  had  heard  nothing. 

"Hello!"  shouted  a  voice  from  the  bushes,  and 
Devil  Judd  Tolliver  issued  from  them  with  an 
axe  on  his  shoulder.  "I  heerd  you'd  come  back 
an'  I'm  glad  to  see  ye."  He  .came  down  to  the 
road  and  shook  Hale's  hand  heartily. 

"Whut  you  been  cryin'  about?"  he  added, 
turning  his  hawk-like  eyes  on  the  little  girl. 

"Nothin',"  she  said  sullenly. 

"Did  she  git  mad  with  ye  'bout  somethin'?" 
said  the  old  man  to  Hale.  "  She  never  cries  'cept 
when  she's  mad."  Hale  laughed. 

"You  jes'  hush  up — both  of  ye,"  said  the  girl 
with  a  sharp  kick  of  her  right  foot. 

"I  reckon  you  can't  stamp  the  ground  that  fer 
away  from  it,"  said  the  old  man  dryly.  "  If  you 

83 


THE  TRAIL  OF  THE  LONESOME  PINE 

don't  git  the  better  of  that  all-fired  temper  o' 
yourn  hit's  goin'  to  git  the  better  of  you,  an'  then 
I'll  have  to  spank  you  agin." 

"I  reckon  you  ain't  goin'  to  whoop  me  no 
more,  pap.  I'm  a-gittin'  too  big." 

The  old  man  opened  eyes  and  mouth  with  an 
indulgent  roar  of  laughter. 

"Come  on  up  to  the  house,"  he  said  to  Hale, 
turning  to  lead  the  way,  the  little  girl  following 
him.  The  old  step-mother  was  again  a-bed;  small 
Bub,  the  brother,  still  unafraid,  sat  down  beside 
Hale  and  the  old  man  brought  out  a  bottle  of 
moonshine. 

"  I  reckon  I  can  still  trust  ye,"  he  said. 

"  I  reckon  you  can,"  laughed  Hale. 

The  liquor  was  as  fiery  as  ever,  but  it  was  grate 
ful,  and  again  the  old  man  took  nearly  a  tumbler 
full  plying  Hale,  meanwhile,  about  the  happen 
ings  in  town  the  day  before — but  Hale  could 
tell  him  nothing  that  he  seemed  not  already  to 
know. 

"  It  was  quar,"  the  old  mountaineer  said.  "  I've 
seed  two  men  with  the  drap  on  each  other  and 
both  afeerd  to  shoot,  but  I  never  heerd  of  sech  a 
ring-around-the-rosy  as  eight  fellers  with  bead  on 
one  another  and  not  a  shoot  shot.  I'm  glad  I 
wasn't  thar." 

He  frowned  when  Hale  spoke  of  the  Red  Fox. 

"You  can't  never  tell  whether  that  ole  devil  is 
fer  ye  or  agin  ye,  but  I've  been  plum'  sick  o'  these 


THE  TRAIL  OF  THE  LONESOME  PINE 

doin's  a  long  time  now  and  sometimes  I  think  I'll 
just  pull  up  stakes  and  go  West  and  git  out  of  hit 
— altogether." 

"How  did  you  learn  so  much  about  yesterday — 


so  soon  r 

14 


Oh,  we  hears  things  purty  quick  in  these 
mountains.  Little  Dave  Tolliver  come  over  here 
last  night." 

"Yes,"  broke  in  Bub,  "and  he  tol'  us  how 
you  carried  Loretty  from  town  on  a  mule  be 
hind  ye,  and  she  jest  a-sassin'  you,  an*  as  how 
she  said  she  was  a-goin'  to  git  you  fer  her  sweet 
heart." 

Hale  glanced  by  chance  at  the  little  girl.  Her 
face  was  scarlet,  and  a  light  dawned. 

"An'  sis,  thar,  said  he  was  a-tellin'  lies — an' 
when  she  growed  up  she  said  she  was  a-goin'  to 
marry " 

Something  snapped  like  a  toy-pistol  and  Bub 
howled.  A  little  brown  hand  had  whacked  him 
across  the  mouth,  and  the  girl  flashed  indoors 
without  a  word.  Bub  got  to  his  feet  howling  with 
pain  and  rage  and  started  after  her,  but  the  old 
man  caught  him: 

"Set  down,  boy!  Sarved  you  right  fer  blabbin' 
things  that  hain't  yo'  business."  He  shook  with 
laughter. 

Jealousy!  Great  heavens — Hale  thought — in 
that  child,  and  for  him! 

"I  knowed  she  was  cryin'  'bout  something  like 

85 


THE  TRAIL  OF  THE  LONESOME  PINE 

that.  She  sets  a  great  store  by  you,  an'  she's 
studied  them  books  you  sent  her  plum'  to  pieces 
while  you  was  away.  She  ain't  nothin'  but  a 
baby,  but  in  sartain  ways  she's  as  old  as  her 
mother  was  when  she  died."  The  amazing  secret 
was  out,  and  thejittle  girl  appeared  no  more  until 
supper  time,  when  she  waited  on  the  table,  but  at 
no  time  would  she  look  at  Hale  or  speak  to  him 
again.  For  a  while  the  two  men  sat  on  the  porch 
talking  of  the  feud  and  the  Gap  and  the  coal  on 
the  old  man's  place,  and  Hale  had  no  trouble  get 
ting  an  option  for  a  year  on  the  old  man's  land. 
Just  as  dusk  was  setting  he  got  his  horse. 

"You'd  better  stay  all  night." 

"No,  I'll  have  to  get  along." 

The  little  girl  did  not  appear  to  tell  him  good- 
by,  and  when  he  went  to  his  horse  at  the  gate,  he 
called: 

"Tell  June  to  come  down  here.  I've  got  some 
thing  for  her." 

"Go  on,  baby,"  the  old  man  said,  and  the  little 
girl  came  shyly  down  to  the  gate.  Hale  took  a 
brown-paper  parcel  from  his  saddle-bags,  un 
wrapped  it  and  betrayed  the  usual  blue-eyed, 
flaxen-haired,  rosy-cheeked  doll.  Only  June  did 
not  know  the  like  of  it  was  in  all  the  world.  And 
as  she  caught  it  to  her  breast  there  were  tears 
once  more  in  her  uplifted  eyes. 

"How  about  going  over  to  the  Gap  with  me, 
little  girl — some  day?" 

86 


THE  TRAIL  OF  THE  LONESOME  PINE 

He  never  guessed  it,  but  there  were  a  child  and 
a  woman  before  him  now  and  both  answered: 
"I'll  go  with  ye  anywhar." 

Hale  stopped  a  while  to  rest  his  horse  at  the  base 
of  the  big  pine.  He  was  practically  alone  in  the 
world.  The  little  girl  back  there  was  born  for 
something  else  than  slow  death  in  that  God-for 
saken  cove,  and  whatever  it  was — why  not  help 
her  to  it  if  he  could  ?  With  this  thought  in  his 
brain,  he  rode  down  from  the  luminous  upper 
world  of  the  moon  and  stars  toward  the  nether 
world  of  drifting  mists  and  black  ravines.  She 
belonged  to  just  such  a  night — that  little  girl — 
she  was  a  part  of  its  mists,  its  lights  and  shadows, 
its  fresh  wild  beauty  and  its  mystery.  Only  once 
did  his  mind  shift  from  her  to  his  great  purpose, 
and  that  was  when  the  roar  of  the  water  through 
the  rocky  chasm  of  the  Gap  made  him  think  of  the 
roar  of  iron  wheels,  that,  rushing  through,  some 
day,  would  drown  it  into  silence.  At  the  mouth 
of  the  Gap  he  saw  the  white  valley  lying  at  peace 
in  the  moonlight  and  straightway  from  it  sprang 
again,  as  always,  his  castle  in  the  air;  but  before 
he  fell  asleep  in  his  cottage  on  the  edge  of  the 
millpond  that  night  he  heard  quite  plainly  again: 

"I'll  go  with  ye — anywhar." 


XI 

CPRING  was    coming:     and,    meanwhile,   that 
late   autumn  and    short  winter,  things  went 
merrily  on  at  the  gap  in  some  ways,  and  in    some 
ways — not. 

Within  eight  miles  of  the  place,  for  instance,  the 
man  fell  ill — the  man  who  was  to  take  up  Hale's 
options — and  he  had  to  be  taken  home.  Still  Hale 
was  undaunted:  here  he  was  and  here  he  would 
stay — and  he  would  try  again.  Two  other  young 
men,  Bluegrass  Kentuckians,  Logan  and  Mac- 
farlan,  had  settled  at  the  gap — both  lawyers  and 
both  of  pioneer,  Indian-fighting  blood.  The  re 
port  of  the  State  geologist  had  been  spread  broad 
cast.  A  famous  magazine  writer  had  come  through 
on  horseback  and  had  gone  home  and  given  a  fer 
vid  account  of  the  riches  and  the  beauty  of  the 
region.  Helmeted  Englishmen  began  to  prowl 
prospectively  around  the  gap  sixty  miles  to  the 
southwest.  New  surveying  parties  were  direct 
ing  lines  for  the  rocky  gateway  between  the 
iron  ore  and  the  coal.  Engineers  and  coal  ex 
perts  passed  in  and  out.  There  were  rumours  of  a 
furnace  and  a  steel  plant  when  the  railroad  should 
reach  the  place.  Capital  had  flowed  in  from  the 
East,  and  already  a  Pennsylvanian  was  starting 

88 


THE  TRAIL  OF  THE  LONESOME  PINE 

a  main  entry  into  a  ten-foot  vein  of  coal  up  through 
the  gap  and  was  coking  it.  His  report  was  that  his 
own  was  better  than  the  Connellsville  coke,  which 
was  the  standard:  it  was  higher  in  carbon  and 
lower  in  ash.  The  Ludlow  brothers,  from  East 
ern  Virginia,  had  started  a  general  store.  Two  of 
the  Berkley  brothers  had  come  over  from  Blue- 
grass  Kentucky  and  their  family  was  coming  in 
the  spring.  The  bearded  Senator  up  the  valley, 
who  was  also  a  preacher,  had  got  his  Methodist 
brethren  interested — and  the  community  was  fur 
ther  enriched  by  the  coming  of  the  Hon.  Samuel 
Budd,  lawyer  and  budding  statesman.  As  a  recre 
ation,  the  Hon.  Sam  was  an  anthropologist:  he 
knew  the  mountaineers  from  Virginia  to  Alabama 
and  they  were  his  pet  illustrations  of  his  pet  theo 
ries  of  the  effect  of  a  mountain  environment  on 
human  life  and  character.  Hale  took  a  great  fancy 
to  him  from  the  first  moment  he  saw  his  smooth, 
ageless,  kindly  face,  surmounted  by  a  huge  pair  of 
spectacles  that  were  hooked  behind  two  large  ears, 
above  which  his  pale  yellow  hair,  parted  in  the 
middle,  was  drawn  back  with  plaster-like  preci 
sion.  A  mayor  and  a  constable  had  been  appoint 
ed,  and  the  Hon.  Sam  had  just  finished  his  first 
case — Squire  Morton  and  the  Widow  Crane,  who 
ran  a  boarding-house,  each  having  laid  claim  to 
three  pigs  that  obstructed  traffic  in  the  town.  The 
Hon.  Sam  was  sitting  by  the  stove,  deep  in  thought, 
when  Hale  came  into  the  hotel  and  he  lifted  his 


THE  TRAIL  OF  THE  LONESOME  PINE 

great    glaring    lenses    and    waited    for    no    intro 
duction  : 

"  Brother,"  he  said,  "  do  you  know  twelve  reliable 
witnesses  come  on  the  stand  and  swore  them  pigs  be 
longed  to  the  squire's  sow,  and  twelve  equally  reliable 
witnesses  swore  them  pigs  belonged  to  the  Widow 
Crane's  sow  ?  I  shorely  was  a  heap  perplexed." 

"That  was  curious."    The  Hon.  Sam  laughed: 

"Well,  sir,  them  intelligent  pigs  used  both  them 
sows  as  mothers,  and  may  be  they  had  another 
mother  somewhere  else.  They  would  breakfast 
with  the  Widow  Crane's  sow  and  take  supper  with 
the  squire's  sow.  And  so  them  witnesses,  too,  was 
naturally  perplexed." 

Hale  waited  while  the  Hon.  Sam  puffed  his  pipe 
into  a  glow: 

"Believin',  as  I  do,  that  the  most  important 
principle  in  law  is  mutually  forgivin'  and  a  square 
division  o'  spoils,  I  suggested  a  compromise.  The 
widow  said  the  squire  was  an  old  rascal  an'  thief 
and  he'd  never  sink  a  tooth  into  one  of  them 
shoats,  but  that  her  lawyer  was  a  gentleman — 
meanin*  me — and  the  squire  said  the  widow  had 
been  blackguardin'  him  all  over  town  and  he'd  see 
her  in  heaven  before  she  got  one,  but  that  his  law 
yer  was  a  prince  of  the  realm :  so  the  other  lawyer 
took  one  and  I  got  the  other." 

"What  became  of  the  third  ?" 

The  Hon.  Sam  was  an  ardent  disciple  of  Sir 
Walter  Scott: 

90 


THE  TRAIL  OF  THE  LONESOME  PINE 

"Well,  just  now  the  mayor  is  a-playin'  Gurth 
to  that  little  runt  for  costs." 

Outside,  the  wheels  of  the  stage  rattled,  and  as 
half  a  dozen  strangers  trooped  in,  the  Hon.  Sam 
waved  his  hand:  "Things  is  comin'." 

Things  were  coming.  The  following  week  "the 
booming  editor"  brought  in  a  printing-press  and 
started  a  paper.  An  enterprising  Hoosier  soon 
established  a  brick-plant.  A  geologist — Hale's 
predecessor  in  Lonesome  Cove — made  the  Gap 
his  headquarters,  and  one  by  one  the  vanguard  of 
engineers,  surveyors,  speculators  and  coalmen 
drifted  in.  The  wings  of  progress  began  to  sprout, 
but  the  new  town-constable  soon  tendered  his  res 
ignation  with  informality  and  violence.  He  had 
arrested  a  Falin,  whose  companions  straightway 
took  him  from  custody  and  set  him  free.  Straight 
way  the  constable  threw  his  pistol  and  badge  of 
office  to  the  ground. 

"I've  fit  an'  I've  hollered  fer  help,"  he  shouted, 
almost  crying  with  rage,  "an'  I've  fit  agin.  Now 
this  town  can  go  to  hell":  and  he  picked  up  his 
pistol  but  left  his  symbol  of  law  and  order  in  the 
dust.  Next  morning  there  was  a  new  constable, 
and  only  that  afternoon  when  Hale  stepped  into 
the  Ludlow  Brothers'  store  he  found  the  constable 
already  busy.  A  line  of  men  with  revolver  or  knife 
in  sight  was  drawn  up  inside  with  their  backs  to 
Hale,  and  beyond  them  he  could  see  the  new 
constable  with  a  man  under  arrest.  Hale  had  not 

91 


THE  TRAIL  OF  THE  LONESOME  PINE 

forgotten  his  promise  to  himself  and  he  began 
now: 

"Come  on,"  he  called  quietly,  and  when  the 
men  turned  at  the  sound  of  his  voice,  the  con 
stable,  who  was  of  sterner  stuff  than  his  prede 
cessor,  pushed  through  them,  dragging  his  man 
after  him. 

"Look  here,  boys,"  said  Hale  calmly.  "Let's 
not  have  any  row.  Let  him  go  to  the  mayor's 
office.  If  he  isn't  guilty,  the  mayor  will  let  him  go. 
If  he  is,  the  mayor  will  give  him  bond.  I'll  go  on 
it  myself.  But  let's  not  have  a  row." 

Now,  to  the  mountain  eye,  Hale  appeared  no 
more  than  the  ordinary  man,  and  even  a  close 
observer  would  have  seen  no  more  than  that  his 
face  was  clean-cut  and  thoughtful,  that  his  eye 
was  blue  and  singularly  clear  and  fearless,  and 
that  he  was  calm  with  a  calmness  that  might  come 
from  anything  else  than  stolidity  of  temperament 
— and  that,  by  the  way,  is  the  self-control  which 
counts  most  against  the  unruly  passions  of  other 
men — but  anybody  near  Hale,  at  a  time  when  ex 
citement  was  high  and  a  crisis  was  imminent, 
would  have  felt  the  resultant  of  forces  emanating 
from  him  that  were  beyond  analysis.  And  so  it 
was  now — the  curious  power  he  instinctively  had 
over  rough  men  had  its  way. 

"Go  on,"  he  continued  quietly,  and  the  con 
stable  went  on  with  his  prisoner,  his  friends  fol 
lowing,  still  swearing  and  with  their  weapons  in 

92 


THE  TRAIL  OF  THE  LONESOME  PINE 

their  hands.  When  constable  and  prisoner 
passed  into  the  mayor's  office,  Hale  stepped 
quickly  after  them  and  turned  on  the  threshold 
with  his  arm  across  the  door. 

"Hold  on,  boys,"  he  said,  still  good-naturedly. 
"The  mayor  can  attend  to  this.  If  you  boys  want 
to  fight  anybody,  fight  me.  I'm  unarmed  and  you 
can  whip  me  easily  enough,"  he  added  with  a 
laugh,  "but  you  mustn't  come  in  here,"  he  con 
cluded,  as  though  the  matter  was  settled  beyond 
further  discussion.  For  one  instant — the  crucial 
one,  of  course — the  men  hesitated,  for  the  reason 
that  so  often  makes  superior  numbers  of  no  avail 
among  the  lawless — the  lack  of  a  leader  of  nerve — 
and  without  another  word  Hale  held  the  door. 
But  the  frightened  mayor  inside  let  the  prisoner 
out  at  once  on  bond  and  Hale,  combining  law  and 
diplomacy,  went  on  the  bond. 

Only  a  day  or  two  later  the  mountaineers,  who 
worked  at  the  brick-plant  with  pistols  buckled 
around  them,  went  on  a  strike  and,  that  night,  shot 
out  the  lights  and  punctured  the  chromos  in  their 
boarding-house.  Then,  armed  with  sticks,  knives, 
clubs  and  pistols,  they  took  a  triumphant  march 
through  town.  That  night  two  knives  and  two 
pistols  were  whipped  out  by  two  of  them  in  the 
same  store.  One  of  the  Ludlows  promptly  blew 
out  the  light  and  astutely  got  under  the  counter. 
When  the  combatants  scrambled  outside,  he 
locked  the  door  and  crawled  out  the  back  window. 

93 


THE  TRAIL  OF  THE  LONESOME  PINE 

Next  morning  the  brick-yard  malcontents  marched 
triumphantly  again  and  Hale  called  for  volunteers 
to  arrest  them.  To  his  disgust  only  Logan,  Mac- 
farlan,  the  Hon.  Sam  Budd,  and  two  or  three 
others  seemed  willing  to  go,  but  when  the  few 
who  would  go  started,  Hale,  leading  them,  looked 
back  and  the  whole  town  seemed  to  be  strung  out 
after  him.  Below  the  hill,  he  saw  the  mountaineers 
drawn  up  in  two  bodies  for  battle  and,  as  he  led 
his  followers  towards  them,  the  Hoosier  owner  of 
the  plant  rode  out  at  a  gallop,  waving  his  hands 
and  apparently  beside  himself  with  anxiety  and 
terror. 

"Don't,"  he  shouted;  "somebody '11  get  killed. 
Wait — they'll  give  up."  So  Hale  halted  and  the 
Hoosier  rode  back.  After  a  short  parley  he  came 
back  to  Hale  to  say  that  the  strikers  would  give  up, 
but  when  Logan  started  again,  they  broke  and  ran, 
and  only  three  or  four  were  captured.  The  Hoo 
sier  was  delirious  over  his  troubles  and  straight 
way  closed  his  plant. 

"See,"  said  Hale  in  disgust.  "We've  got  to  do 
something  now." 

"We  have,"  said  the  lawyers,  and  that  night  on 
Hale's  porch,  the  three,  with  the  Hon.  Sam  Budd, 
pondered  the  problem.  They  could  not  build  a 
town  without  law  and  order — they  could  not  have 
law  and  order  without  taking  part  themselves,  and 
even  then  they  plainly  would  have  their  hands 
full.  And  so,  that  night,  on  the  tiny  porch  of  the 

94 


THE  TRAIL  OF  THE  LONESOME  PINE 

little  cottage  that  was  Hale's  sleeping-room  and 
office,  with  the  creaking  of  the  one  wheel  of  their 
one  industry — the  old  grist-mill — making  patient 
music  through  the  rhododendron-darkness  that 
hid  the  steep  bank  of  the  stream,  the  three  pio 
neers  forged  their  plan.  There  had  been  gentlemen- 
regulators  a  plenty,  vigilance  committees  of  gen 
tlemen,  and  the  Ku-Klux  clan  had  been  originally 
composed  of  gentlemen,  as  they  all  knew,  but 
they  meant  to  hew  to  the  strict  line  of  town- 
ordinance  and  common  law  and  do  the  rough  every 
day  work  of  the  common  policeman.  So  volunteer 
policemen  they  would  be  and,  in  order  to  extend 
their  authority  as  much  as  possible,  as  county 
policemen  they  would  be  enrolled.  Each  man 
would  purchase  his  own  Winchester,  pistol,  billy, 
badge  and  a  whistle — to  call  for  help — and  they 
would  begin  drilling  and  target-shooting  at  once. 
The  Hon.  Sam  shook  his  head  dubiously: 

"The  natives  won't  understand." 

"We  can't  help  that,"  said  Hale. 

"I  know — I'm  with  you." 

Hale  was  made  captain,  Logan  first  lieutenant, 
Macfarlan  second,  and  the  Hon.  Sam  third.  Two 
rules,  Logan,  who,  too,  knew  the  mountaineer 
well,  suggested  as  inflexible.  One  was  never  to 
draw  a  pistol  at  all  unless  necessary,  never  to  pre 
tend  to  draw  as  a  threat  or  to  intimidate,  and  never 
to  draw  unless  one  meant  to  shoot,  if  need  be. 

"And  the  other,"  added  Logan,  "always  go  in 

95 


THE  TRAIL  OF  THE  LONESOME  PINE 

force  to  make  an  arrest — never  alone  unless  neces 
sary."  The  Hon.  Sam  moved  his  head  up  and 
down  in  hearty  approval. 

"Why  is  that?  "asked  Hale. 

"To  save  bloodshed,"  he  said.  "These  fellows 
we  will  have  to  deal  with  have  a  pride  that  is  mor 
bid.  A  mountaineer  doesn't  like  to  go  home  and 
have  to  say  that  one  man  put  him  in  the  calaboose 
— but  he  doesn't  mind  telling  that  it  took  several 
to  arrest  him.  Moreover,  he  will  give  in  to  two 
or  three  men,  when  he  would  look  on  the  coming 
of  one  man  as  a  personal  issue  and  to  be  met  as 
such." 

Hale  nodded. 

"Oh,  there'll  be  plenty  of  chances,"  Logan 
added  with  a  smile,  "for  everyone  to  go  it  alone." 
Again  the  Hon.  Sam  nodded  grimly.  It  was  plain 
to  him  that  they  would  have  all  they  could  do, 
but  no  one  of  them  dreamed  of  the  far-reaching 
effect  that  night's  work  would  bring. 

They  were  the  vanguard  of  civilization — "cru 
saders  of  the  nineteenth  century  against  the  be 
nighted  of  the  Middle  Ages,"  said  the  Hon.  Sam, 
and  when  Logan  and  Macfarlan  left,  he  lingered 
and  lit  his  pipe. 

"The  trouble  will  be,"  he  said  slowly,  "that 
they  won't  understand  our  purpose  or  our  meth 
ods.  They  will  look  on  us  as  a  lot  of  meddlesome 
'furriners'  who  have  come  in  to  run  their  country 
as  we  please,  when  they  have  been  running  it  as 


THE  TRAIL  OF  THE  LONESOME  PINE 

they  please  for  more  than  a  hundred  years.  You 
see,  you  mustn't  judge  them  by  the  standards  of 
to-day — you  must  go  back  to  the  standards  of  the 
Revolution.  Practically,  they  are  the  pioneers  of 
that  day  and  hardly  a  bit  have  they  advanced. 
They  are  our  contemporary  ancestors."  And  then 
the  Hon.  Sam,  having  dropped  his  vernacular, 
lounged  ponderously  into  what  he  was  pleased  to 
call  his  anthropological  drool. 

"You  see,  mountains  isolate  people  and  the 
effect  of  isolation  on  human  life  is  to  crystallize  it. 
Those  people  over  the  line  have  had  no  navigable 
rivers,  no  lakes,  no  wagon  roads,  except  often  the 
beds  of  streams.  They  have  been  cut  off  from  all 
communication  with  the  outside  world.  They  are 
a  perfect  example  of  an  arrested  civilization  and 
they  are  the  closest  link  we  have  with  the  Old 
World.  They  were  Unionists  because  of  the  Revo 
lution,  as  they  were  Americans  in  the  beginning 
because  of  the  spirit  of  the  Covenanter.  They  live 
like  the  pioneers;  the  axe  and  the  rifle  are  still 
their  weapons  and  they  still  have  the  same  fight 
with  nature.  This  feud  business  is  a  matter  of 
clan-loyalty  that  goes  back  to  Scotland.  They  ar 
gue  this  way:  You  are  my  friend  or  my  kinsman, 
your  quarrel  is  my  quarrel,  and  whoever  hits  you 
hits  me.  If  you  are  in  trouble,  I  must  not  testify 
against  you.  If  you  are  an  officer,  you  must  not 
arrest  me;  you  must  send  me  a  kindly  request  to 
come  into  court.  If  I'm  innocent  and  it's  per- 

97 


THE  TRAIL  OF  THE  LONESOME  PINE 

fectly  convenient — why,  maybe  I'll  come.  Yes, 
we're  the  vanguard  of  civilization,  all  right,  all 
right — but  I  opine  we're  goin'  to  have  a  hell  of  a 
merry  time." 

Hale  laughed,  but  he  was  to  remember  those 
words  of  the  Hon.  Samuel  Budd.  Other  members 
of  that  vanguard  began  to  drift  in  now  by  twos 
and  threes  from  the  bluegrass  region  of  Kentucky 
and  from  the  tide-water  country  of  Virginia  and 
from  New  England — strong,  bold  young  men  with 
the  spirit  of  the  pioneer  and  the  birth,  breeding 
and  education  of  gentlemen,  and  the  war  between 
civilization  and  a  lawlessness  that  was  the  result 
of  isolation,  and  consequent  ignorance  and  idleness 
started  in  earnest. 

"A  remarkable  array,"  murmured  the  Hon. 
Sam,  when  he  took  an  inventory  one  night  with 
Hale.  "I'm  proud  to  be  among  'em." 

Many  times  Hale  went  over  to  Lonesome  Cove 
and  with  every  visit  his  interest  grew  steadily  in 
the  little  girl  and  in  the  curious  people  over  there, 
until  he  actually  began  to  believe  in  the  Hon.  Sam 
Budd's  anthropological  theories.  In  the  cabin  on 
Lonesome  Cove  was  a  crane  swinging  in  the  big 
stone  fireplace,  and  he  saw  the  old  step-mother  and 
June  putting  the  spinning  wheel  and  the  loom  to 
actual  use.  Sometimes  he  found  a  cabin  of  un 
hewn  logs  with  a  puncheon  floor,  clapboards  for 
shingles  and  wooden  pin  and  auger  holes  for 
nails;  a  batten  wooden  shutter,  the  logs  filled  with 


THE  TRAIL  OF  THE  LONESOME  PINE 

mud  and  stones  and  holes  in  the  roof  for  the  wind 
and  the  rain.  Over  a  pair  of  buck  antlers  some 
times  lay  the  long  heavy  home-made  rifle  of  the 
backwoodsman — sometimes  even  with  a  flintlock 
and  called  by  some  pet  feminine  name.  Once  he 
saw  the  hominy  block  that  the  mountaineers  had 
borrowed  from  the  Indians,  and  once  a  handmill 
like  the  one  from  which  the  one  woman  was  taken 
and  the  other  left  in  biblical  days.  He  struck 
communities  where  the  medium  of  exchange  was 
still  barter,  and  he  found  mountaineers  drinking 
metheglin  still  as  well  as  moonshine.  Moreover, 
there  were  still  log-rollings,  house-warmings,  corn- 
shuckings,  and  quilting  parties,  and  sports  were  the 
same  as  in  pioneer  days — wrestling,  racing,  jumping, 
and  lifting  barrels.  Often  he  saw  a  cradle  of  bee- 
gum,  and  old  Judd  had  in  his  house  a  fox-horn  made 
of  hickory  bark  which  even  June  could  blow.  He 
ran  across  old-world  superstitions,  too,  and  met 
one  seventh  son  of  a  seventh  son  who  cured  chil 
dren  of  rash  by  blowing  into  their  mouths.  And 
he  got  June  to  singing  transatlantic  songs,  after 
old  Judd  said  one  day  that  she  knowed  the  "mis- 
erablest  song  he'd  ever  heerd" — meaning  the  most 
sorrowful.  And,  thereupon,  with  quaint  sim 
plicity,  June  put  her  heels  on  the  rung  of  her 
chair,  and  with  her  elbows  on  her  knees,  and  her 
chin  on  both  bent  thumbs,  sang  him  the  oldest 
version  of  "  Barbara  Allen  "  in  a  voice  that  startled 
Hale  by  its  power  and  sweetness.  She  knew  lots 

99 


THE  TRAIL  OF  THE  LONESOME  PINE 

more  "song-ballets,"  she  said  shyly,  and  the  old 
man  had  her  sing  some  songs  that  were  rather 
rude,  but  were  as  innocent  as  hymns  from  her 
lips. 

Everywhere  he  found  unlimited  hospitality. 

"Take  out,  stranger,"  said  one  old  fellow,  when 
there  was  nothing  on  the  table  but  some  bread  and 
a  few  potatoes,  "have  a  tater.  Take  two  of  'em — 
take  damn  nigh  all  of  'em." 

Moreover,  their  pride  was  morbid,  and  they 
were  very  religious.  Indeed,  they  used  religion  to 
cloak  their  deviltry,  as  honestly  as  it  was  ever  used 
in  history.  He  had  heard  old  Judd  say  once,  when 
he  was  speaking  of  the  feud : 

"Well,  I've  al'ays  laid  out  my  enemies.  The 
Lord's  been  on  my  side  an'  I  gits  a  better  Chris 
tian  every  year." 

Always  Hale  took  some  children's  book  for 
June  when  he  went  to  Lonesome  Cove,  and  she 
rarely  failed  to  know  it  almost  by  heart  when  he 
went  again.  She  was  so  intelligent  that  he  began 
to  wonder  if,  in  her  case,  at  least,  another  of  the 
Hon.  Sam's  theories  might  not  be  true — that  the 
mountaineers  were  of  the  same  class  as  the  other 
westward-sweeping  emigrants  of  more  than  a 
century  before,  that  they  had  simply  lain  dormant 
in  the  hills  and — a  century  counting  for  nothing  in 
the  matter  of  inheritance — that  their  possibilities 
were  little  changed,  and  that  the  children  of  that 
day  would,  if  given  the  chance,  wipe  out  the  handi- 

100 


THE  TRAIL  OF  THE  LONESOME  PINE 

cap  of  a  century  in  one  generation  and  take  their 
place  abreast  with  children  of  the  outside  world. 
The  Tollivers  were  of  good  blood;  they  had  come 
from  Eastern  Virginia,  and  the  original  Tolliver 
had  been  a  slave-owner.  The  very  name  was,  un 
doubtedly,  a  corruption  of  Tagliaferro.  So,  when 
the  Widow  Crane  began  to  build  a  brick  house  for 
her  boarders  that  winter,  and  the  foundations  of  a 
school-house  were  laid  at  the  Gap,  Hale  began  to 
plead  with  old  Judd  to  allow  June  to  go  over  to 
the  Gap  and  go  to  school,  but  the  old  man  was  firm 
in  refusal: 

"He  couldn't  git  along  without  her,"  he  said; 
"he  was  afeerd  he'd  lose  her,  an'  he  reckoned  June 
was  a-larnin'  enough  without  goin'  to  school — she 
was  a-studyin'  them  leetle  books  o'  hers  so  hard." 
But  as  his  confidence  in  Hale  grew  and  as  Hale 
stated  his  intention  to  take  an  option  on  the  old 
man's  coal  lands,  he  could  see  that  Devil  Judd, 
though  his  answer  never  varied,  was  considering 
the  question  seriously. 

Through  the  winter,  then,  Hale  made  occasional 
trips  to  Lonesome  Cove  and  bided  his  time.  Often 
he  met  young  Dave  Tolliver  there,  but  the  boy 
usually  left  when  Hale  came,  and  if  Hale  was  al 
ready  there,  he  kept  outside  the  house,  until  the 
engineer  was  gone. 

Knowing  nothing  of  the  ethics  of  courtship  in 
the  mountains — how,  when  two  men  meet  at  the 
same  girl's  house,  "they  makes  the  gal  say  which 

101 


THE  TRAIL  OF  THE  LONESOME  PINE 

one  she  likes  best  and  t'other  one  gits" — Hale  little 
dreamed  that  the  first  time  Dave  stalked  out  of  the 
room,  he  threw  his  hat  in  the  grass  behind  the  big 
chimney  and  executed  a  war-dance  on  it,  cursing 
the  blankety-blank  "furriner"  within  from  Dan 
to  Beersheba. 

Indeed,  he  never  suspected  the  fierce  depths  of 
the  boy's  jealousy  at  all,  and  he  would  have 
laughed  incredulously,  if  he  had  been  told  how, 
time  after  time  as  he  climbed  the  mountain  home 
ward,  the  boy's  black  eyes  burned  from  the  bushes 
on  him,  while  his  hand  twitched  at  his  pistol-butt 
and  his  lips  worked  with  noiseless  threats.  For 
Dave  had  to  keep  his  heart-burnings  to  himself  or 
he  would  have  been  laughed  at  through  all  the 
mountains,  and  not  only  by  his  own  family,  but  by 
June's;  so  he,  too,  bided  his  time. 

In  late  February,  old  Buck  Falin  and  old  Dave 
Tolliver  shot  each  other  down  in  the  road  and  the 
Red  Fox,  who  hated  both  and  whom  each  thought 
was  his  friend,  dressed  the  wounds  of  both  with 
equal  care.  The  temporary  lull  of  peace  that  Bad 
Rufe's  absence  in  the  West  had  brought  about, 
gave  way  to  a  threatening  storm  then,  and  then  it 
was  that  old  Judd  gave  his  consent:  when  the 
roads  got  better,  June  could  go  to  the  Gap  to 
school.  A  month  later  the  old  man  sent  word  that 
he  did  not  want  June  in  the  mountains  while  the 
trouble  was  going  on,  and  that  Hale  could  come 
over  for  her  when  he  pleased:  and  Hale  sent  word 

102 


THE  TRAIL  OF  THE  LONESOME  PINE 

back  that  within  three  days  he  would  meet  the 
father  and  the  little  girl  at  the  big  Pine.  That  last 
day  at  home  June  passed  in  a  dream.  She  went 
through  her  daily  tasks  in  a  dream  and  she  hardly 
noticed  young  Dave  when  he  came  in  at  mid-day, 
and  Dave,  when  he  heard  the  news,  left  in  sullen 
silence.  In  the  afternoon  she  went  down  to  the 
mill  to  tell  Uncle  Billy  and  ole  Hon  good-by  and 
the  three  sat  in  the  porch  a  long  time  and  with  few 
words.  Ole  Hon  had  been  to  the  Gap  once,  but 
there  was  "so  much  bustle  over  thar  it  made 
her  head  ache."  Uncle  Billy  shook  his  head 
doubtfully  over  June's  going,  and  the  two  old 
people  stood  at  the  gate  looking  long  after  the  little 
girl  when  she  went  homeward  up  the  road.  Be 
fore  supper  June  slipped  up  to  her  little  hiding- 
place  at  the  pool  and  sat  on  the  old  log  saying 
good-by  to  the  comforting  spirit  that  always 
brooded  for  her  there,  and,  when  she  stood  on  the 
porch  at  sunset,  a  new  spirit  was  coming  on  the 
wings  of  the  South  wind.  Hale  felt  it  as  he  stepped 
into  the  soft  night  air;  he  heard  it  in  the  piping  of 
frogs — "Marsh-birds,"  as  he  always  called  them; 
he  could  almost  see  it  in  the  flying  clouds  and  the 
moonlight  and  even  the  bare  trees  seemed  tremu 
lously  expectant.  An  indefinable  happiness 
seemed  to  pervade  the  whole  earth  and  Hale 
stretched  his  arms  lazily.  Over  in  Lonesome 
Cove  little  June  felt  it  more  keenly  than  ever  in 
her  life  before.  She  did  not  want  to  go  to  bed  that 

103 


THE  TRAIL  OF  THE  LONESOME  PINE 

night,  and  when  the  others  were  asleep  she  slipped 
out  to  the  porch  and  sat  on  the  steps,  her  eyes 
luminous  and  her  face  wistful — looking  towards 
the  big  Pine  which  pointed  the  way  towards  the 
far  silence  into  which  she  was  going  at  last. 


104 


XII 

TUNE  did  not  have  to  be  awakened  that  morn- 
^  ing.  At  the  first  clarion  call  of  the  old  rooster 
behind  the  cabin,  her  eyes  opened  wide  and  a 
happy  thrill  tingled  her  from  head  to  foot — why, 
she  didn't  at  first  quite  realize — and  then  she 
stretched  her  slender  round  arms  to  full  length 
above  her  head  and  with  a  little  squeal  of  joy 
bounded  out  of  the  bed,  dressed  as  she  was  when 
she  went  into  it,  and  with  no  changes  to  make  ex 
cept  to  push  back  her  tangled  hair.  Her  father 
was  out  feeding  the  stock  and  she  could  hear  her 
step-mother  in  the  kitchen.  Bub  still  slept  soundly, 
and  she  shook  him  by  the  shoulder. 

"Git  up,  Bub." 

"Go  'way,"  said  Bub  fretfully.  Again  she 
started  to  shake  him  but  stopped — Bub  wasn't 
going  to  the  Gap,  so  she  let  him  sleep.  For  a  little 
while  she  looked  down  at  him — at  his  round  rosy 
face  and  his  frowsy  hair  from  under  which  pro 
truded  one  dirty  fist.  She  was  going  to  leave  him, 
and  a  fresh  tenderness  for  him  made  her  breast 
heave,  but  she  did  not  kiss  him,  for  sisterly  kisses 
are  hardly  known  in  the  hills.  Then  she  went  out 
into  the  kitchen  to  help  her  step-mother. 

105 


THE  TRAIL  OF  THE  LONESOME  PINE 

"Gittin'  mighty  busy,  all  of  a  sudden,  ain't 
ye/'  said  the  sour  old  woman,  "now  that  ye  air 
goin'  away." 

"Tain't  costin'  you  nothing"  answered  June 
quietly,  and  she  picked  up  a  pail  and  went  out  into 
the  frosty,  shivering  daybreak  to  the  old  well.  The 
chain  froze  her  fingers,  the  cold  water  splashed  her 
feet,  and  when  she  had  tugged  her  heavy  burden 
back  to  the  kitchen,  she  held  her  red,  chapped 
hands  to  the  fire. 

"I  reckon  you'll  be  mighty  glad  to  git  shet  o' 
me."  The  old  woman  sniffled,  and  June  looked 
around  with  a  start. 

"Pears  like  I'm  goin'  to  miss  ye  right  smart," 
she  quavered,  and  June's  face  coloured  with  a  new 
feeling  towards  her  step-mother. 

"I'm  goin'  ter  have  a  hard  time  doin'  all  the 
work  and  me  so  poorly." 

"  Lorrety  is  a-comin'  over  to  he'p  ye,  if  ye  git 
sick,"  said  June,  hardening  again.  "Or,  I'll  come 
back  myself."  She  got  out  the  dishes  and  set 
them  on  the  table. 

"You  an'  me  don't  git  along  very  well  to 
gether,"  she  went  on  placidly.  "I  never  heerd  o' 
no  step-mother  and  children  as  did,  an'  I  reckon 
you'll  be  might  glad  to  git  shet  o'  me." 

"Pears  like  I'm  going  to  miss  ye  a  right 
smart,"  repeated  the  old  woman  weakly. 

June  went  out  to  the  stable  with  the  milking 
pail.  Her  father  had  spread  fodder  for  the  cow 

1 06 


THE  TRAIL  OF  THE  LONESOME  PINE 

and  she  could  hear  the  rasping  of  the  ears  of  corn 
against  each  other  as  he  tumbled  them  into  the 
trough  for  the  old  sorrel.  She  put  her  head  against 
the  cow's  soft  flank  and  under  her  sinewy  fingers 
two  streams  of  milk  struck  the  bottom  of  the  tin 
pail  with  such  thumping  loudness  that  she  did 
not  hear  her  father's  step;  but  when  she  rose  to 
make  the  beast  put  back  her  right  leg,  she  saw 
him  looking  at  her. 

"Who's  goin'  ter  milk,  pap,  atter  I'm  gone  ?" 

"This  the  fust  time  you  thought  o'  that?" 
June  put  her  flushed  cheek  back  to  the  flank  of  the 
cow.  It  was  not  the  first  time  she  had  thought  of 
that — her  step-mother  would  milk  and  if  she  were 
ill,  her  father  or  Loretta.  She  had  not  meant  to 
ask  that  question — she  was  wondering  when  they 
would  start.  That  was  what  she  meant  to  ask 
and  she  was  glad  that  she  had  swerved.  Break 
fast  was  eaten  in  the  usual  silence  by  the  boy  and 
the  man — June  and  the  step-mother  serving  it, 
and  waiting  on  the  lord  that  was  and  the  lord  that 
was  to  be — and  then  the  two  females  sat  down. 

"Hurry  up,  June,"  said  the  old  man,  wiping  his 
mouth  and  beard  with  the  back  of  his  hand. 
"Clear  away  the  dishes  an'  git  ready.  Hale  said 
he  would  meet  us  at  the  Pine  an'  hour  by  sun,  fer  I 
told  him  I  had  to  git  back  to  work.  Hurry  up, 
now!" 

June  hurried  up.  She  was  too  excited  to  eat 
anything,  so  she  began  to  wash  the  dishes  while 

107 


THE  TRAIL  OF  THE  LONESOME  PINE 

her  step-mother  ate.  Then  she  went  into  the 
living-room  to  pack  her  things  and  it  didn't  take 
long.  She  wrapped  the  doll  Hale  had  given  her  in 
an  extra  petticoat,  wound  one  pair  of  yarn  stock 
ings  around  a  pair  of  coarse  shoes,  tied  them  up 
into  one  bundle  and  she  was  ready.  Her  father 
appeared  with  the  sorrel  horse,  caught  up  his 
saddle  from  the  porch,  threw  it  on  and  stretched 
the  blanket  behind  it  as  a  pillion  for  June  to  ride  on. 

"Let's  go!"  he  said.  There  is  little  or  no 
demonstrativeness  in  the  domestic  relations  of 
mountaineers.  The  kiss  of  courtship  is  the  only 
one  known.  There  were  no  good-bys — only  that 
short  "Let's  go!" 

June  sprang  behind  her  father  from  the  porch. 
The  step-mother  handed  her  the  bundle  which 
she  clutched  in  her  lap,  and  they  simply  rode 
away,  the  step-mother  and  Bub  silently  gazing 
after  them.  But  June  saw  the  boy's  mouth  work 
ing,  and  when  she  turned  the  thicket  at  the  creek, 
she  looked  back  at  the  two  quiet  figures,  and  a 
keen  pain  cut  her  heart.  She  shut  her  mouth 
closely,  gripped  her  bundle  more  tightly  and  the 
tears  streamed  down  her  face,  but  the  man  did 
not  know.  They  climbed  in  silence.  Sometimes 
her  father  dismounted  where  the  path  was  steep, 
but  June  sat  on  the  horse  to  hold  the  bundle  and 
thus  they  mounted  through  the  mist  and  chill  of 
the  morning.  A  shout  greeted  them  from  the  top 
of  the  little  spur  whence  the  big  Pine  was  visible, 

1 08 


THE  TRAIL  OF  THE  LONESOME  PINE 

and  up  there  they  found  Hale  waiting.  He  had 
reached  the  Pine  earlier  than  they  and  was  coming 
down  to  meet  them. 

"Hello,  little  girl,"  called  Hale  cheerily,  "you 
didn't  fail  me,  did  you  ?" 

June  shook  her  head  and  smiled.  Her  face  was 
blue  and  her  little  legs,  dangling  under  the  bundle, 
were  shrinking  from  the  cold.  Her  bonnet  had 
fallen  to  the  back  of  her  neck,  and  he  saw  that  her 
hair  was  parted  and  gathered  in  a  Psyche  knot  at 
the  back  of  her  head,  giving  her  a  quaint  old  look 
when  she  stood  on  the  ground  in  her  crimson  gown. 
Hale  had  not  forgotten  a  pillion  and  there  the 
transfer  was  made.  Hale  lifted  her  behind  his 
saddle  and  handed  up  her  bundle. 

"I'll  take  good  care  of  her,"  he  said. 

"All  right,"  said  the  old  man. 

"And  I'm  coming  over  soon  to  fix  up  that  coal 
matter,  and  I'll  let  you  know  how  she's  getting  on." 

"All  right." 

"Good-by,"  said  Hale. 

"  I  wish  ye  well,"  said  the  mountaineer.  "  Be  a 
good  girl,  Juny,  and  do  what  Mr.  Hale  thar  tells 
ye." 

"All  right,  pap."  And  thus  they  parted.  June 
felt  the  power  of  Hale's  big  black  horse  with  ex 
ultation  the  moment  he  started. 

"Now  we're  off,"  said  Hale  gayly,  and  he  patted 
the  little  hand  that  was  about  his  waist.  "Give 
me  that  bundle." 

109 


THE  TRAIL  OF  THE  LONESOME  PINE 

"I  can  carry  it." 

"No,  you  can't — not  with  me,"  and  when  he 
reached  around  for  it  and  put  it  on  the  cantle  of 
his  saddle,  June  thrust  her  left  hand  into  his  over 
coat  pocket  and  Hale  laughed. 

"Loretta  wouldn't  ride  with  me  this  way." 

"Loretty  ain't  got  much  sense,"  drawled  June 
complacently.  "Tain't  no  harm.  But  don't  you 
tell  me!  I  don't  want  to  hear  nothin'  'bout  Lo 
retty  noway."  Again  Hale  laughed  and  June 
laughed,  too.  Imp  that  she  was,  she  was  just  pre 
tending  to  be  jealous  now.  She  could  see  the  big 
Pine  over  his  shoulder. 

"I've  knowed  that  tree  since  I  was  a  little  girl — 
since  I  was  a  baby,"  she  said,  and  the  tone  of  her 
voice  was  new  to  Hale.  "Sister  Sally  uster  tell  me 
lots  about  that  ole  tree."  Hale  waited,  but  she 
stopped  again. 

"What  did  she  tell  you?" 

"She  used  to  say  hit  was  curious  that  hit  should 
be  'way  up  here  all  alone — that  she  reckollected  it 
ever  since  she  was  a  baby,  and  she  used  to  come  up 
here  and  talk  to  it,  and  she  said  sometimes  she 
could  hear  it  jus'  a  whisperin'  to  her  when  she 
was  down  home  in  the  cove." 

"What  did  she  say  it  said?" 

"She  said  it  was  always  a-whisperin'  'come — 
come — come!"  June  crooned  the  words,  "an* 
atter  she  died,  I  heerd  the  folks  sayin'  as  how  she 
riz  up  in  bed  with  her  eyes  right  wide  an'  sayin' 

no 


THE  TRAIL  OF  THE  LONESOME  PINE 

'I  hears  it!  It's  a-whisperin' — I  hears  it — come — 
come — come'!"  And  still  Hale  kept  quiet  when 
she  stopped  again. 

"The  Red  Fox  said  hit  was  the  sperits,  but  I 
knowed  when  they  told  me  that  she  was  a  thinkin' 
o'  that  ole  tree  thar.  But  I  never  let  on.  I  reckon 
that's  one  reason  made  me  come  here  that  day." 
They  were  close  to  the  big  tree  now  and  Hale  dis 
mounted  to  fix  his  girth  for  the  descent. 

"Well,  I'm  mighty  glad  you  came,  little  girl. 
I  might  never  have  seen  you." 

"That's  so,"  said  June. 

"  I  saw  the  print  of  your  foot  in  the  mud  right 
there." 

"Did  ye?" 

"And  if  I  hadn't,  I  might  never  have  gone  down 
into  Lonesome  Cove."  June  laughed. 

"  You  ran  from  me,"  Hale  went  on. 

"Yes,  I  did:  an'  that's  why  you  follered  me." 
Hale  looked  up  quickly.  Her  face  was  demure, 
but  her  eyes  danced.  She  was  an  aged  little  thing. 

"Why  did  you  run?" 

"I  thought  yo'  fishin'  pole  was  a  rifle-gun  an* 
that  you  was  a  raider."  Hale  laughed — "I  see." 

"'Member  when  you  let  yo'  horse  drink?" 
Hale  nodded.  "Well,  I  was  on  a  rock  above  the 
creek,  lookin'  down  at  ye.  An'  I  seed  ye  catchin' 
minners  an'  thought  you  was  goin'  up  the  crick 
lookin'  fer  a  still." 

"Weren't  you  afraid  of  me  then  ?" 
in 


THE  TRAIL  OF  THE  LONESOME  PINE 

"Huh!"  she  said  contemptuously.  "I  wasn't 
afeared  of  you  at  all,  'cept  fer  what  you  mought 
find  out.  You  couldn't  do  no  harm  to  nobody 
without  a  gun,  and  I  knowed  thar  wasn't  no  still 
up  that  crick.  I  know — I  knowed  whar  it  was." 
Hale  noticed  the  quick  change  of  tense. 

"Won't  you  take  me  to  see  it  some  time  ?" 

"No!"  she  said  shortly,  and  Hale  knew  he  had 
made  a  mistake.  It  was  too  steep  for  both  to  ride 
now,  so  he  tied  the  bundle  to  the  cantle  with  leath 
ern  strings  and  started  leading  the  horse.  June 
pointed  to  the  edge  of  the  cliff. 

"I  was  a-layin'  flat  right  thar  and  I  seed  you 
comin'  down  thar.  My,  but  you  looked  funny  to 
me!  You  don't  now,"  she  added  hastily.  "You 
look  mighty  nice  to  me  now !" 

"You're  a  little  rascal,"  said  Hale,  "that's 
what  you  are."  The  little  girl  bubbled  with 
laughter  and  then  she  grew  mock-serious. 

"No,  I  ain't." 

"Yes,  you  are,"  he  repeated,  shaking  his  head, 
and  both  were  silent  for  a  while.  June  was  going  to 
begin  her  education  now  and  it  was  just  as  well  for 
him  to  begin  with  it  now.  So  he  started  vaguely 
when  he  was  mounted  again: 

"June,  you  thought  my  clothes  were  funny 
when  you  first  saw  them — didn't  you  ?" 

"Uh,  huh!"  said  June. 

"  But  you  like  them  now  ?" 

"Uh,  huh!"  she  crooned  again. 
112 


THE  TRAIL  OF  THE  LONESOME  PINE 

"Well,  some  people  who  weren't  used  to  clothes 
that  people  wear  over  in  the  mountains  might 
think  them  funny  for  the  same  reason — mightn't 
they  ?"  June  was  silent  for  a  moment. 

"Well,  mebbe,  I  like  your  clothes  better,  because 
I  like  you  better,"  she  said,  and  Hale  laughed. 

"Well,  it's  just  the  same — the  way  people  in  the 
mountains  dress  and  talk  is  different  from  the  way 
people  outside  dress  and  talk.  It  doesn't  make 
much  difference  about  clothes,  though,  I  guess 
you  will  want  to  be  as  much  like  people  over  here 
as  you  can " 

"I  don't  know,"  interrupted  the  little  girl 
shortly,  "I  ain't  seed  'em  yit." 

"Well,"  laughed  Hale,  "you  will  want  to  talk 
like  them  anyhow,  because  everybody  who  is 
learning  tries  to  talk  the  same  way."  June  was 
silent,  and  Hale  plunged  unconsciously  on. 

"Up  at  the  Pine  now  you  said,  'I  seed  you  when 
I  was  a-layin  on  the  edge  of  the  cliff';  now  you 
ought  to  have  said,  'I  saw  you  when  I  was  ly- 
ing '" 

"I  wasn't,"  she  said  sharply,  "I  don't  tell 
lies — "  her  hand  shot  from  his  waist  and  she  slid 
suddenly  to  the  ground.  He  pulled  in  his  horse 
and  turned  a  bewildered  face.  She  had  lighted 
on  her  feet  and  was  poised  back  above  him  like 
an  enraged  eaglet — her  thin  nostrils  quivering,  her 
mouth  as  tight  as  a  bow-string,  and  her  eyes  two 
points  of  fire. 


THE  TRAIL  OF  THE  LONESOME  PINE 

"Why— June!" 

"Ef  you  don't  like  my  clothes  an'  the  way  I 
talk,  I  reckon  I'd  better  go  back  home."  With  a 
groan  Hale  tumbled  from  his  horse.  Fool  that  he 
was,  he  had  forgotten  the  sensitive  pride  of  the 
mountaineer,  even  while  he  was  thinking  of  that 
pride.  He  knew  that  fun  might  be  made  of  her 
speech  and  her  garb  by  her  schoolmates  over  at 
the  Gap,  and  he  was  trying  to  prepare  her — to  save 
her  mortification,  to  make  her  understand. 

"Why,  June,  little  girl,  I  didn't  mean  to  hurt 
your  feelings.  You  don't  understand — you  can't 
now,  but  you  will.  Trust  me,  won't  you  ?  I  like 
you  just  as  you  are.  I  love  the  way  you  talk.  But 
other  people — forgive  me,  won't  you  ?"  he  pleaded. 
"I'm  sorry.  I  wouldn't  hurt  you  for  the  world." 

She  didn't  understand — she  hardly  heard  what 
he  said,  but  she  did  know  his  distress  was  genuine 
and  his  sorrow:  and  his  voice  melted  her  fierce 
little  heart.  The  tears  began  to  come,  while  she 
looked,  and  when  he  put  his  arms  about  her,  she 
put  her  face  on  his  breast  and  sobbed. 

"There  now!"  he  said  soothingly.  "It's  all 
right  now.  I'm  so  sorry — so  very  sorry,"  and  he 
patted  her  on  the  shoulder  and  laid  his  hand  across 
her  temple  and  hair,  and  pressed  her  head  tight  to 
his  breast.  Almost  as  suddenly  she  stopped  sob 
bing  and  loosening  herself  turned  away  from 
him. 

"I'm  a  fool — that's  what  I  am,"  she  said  hotly. 
114 


THE  TRAIL  OF  THE  LONESOME  PINE 

"No,  you  aren't!  Come  on,  little  girl!  We're 
friends  again,  aren't  we?"  June  was  digging  at 
her  eyes  with  both  hands. 

"Aren't  we?" 

"Yes,"  she  said  with  an  angry  little  catch  of 
her  breath,  and  she  turned  submissively  to  let  him 
lift  her  to  her  seat.  Then  she  looked  down  into 
his  face. 

"Jack,"  she  said,  and  he  started  again  at  the 
frank  address,  "I  ain't  never  goin  to  do  that  no 
more." 

"Yes,  you  are,  little  girl,"  he  said  soberly  but 
cheerily.  "You're  goin'  to  do  it  whenever  I'm 
wrong  or  whenever  you  think  I'm  wrong."  She 
shook  her  head  seriously. 

"No,  Jack." 

In  a  few  minutes  they  were  at  the  foot  of  the 
mountain  and  on  a  level  road. 

"Hold  tight!"  Hale  shouted,  "I'm  going  to  let 
him  out  now."  At  the  touch  of  his  spur,  the  big 
black  horse  sprang  into  a  gallop,  faster  and  faster, 
until  he  was  pounding  the  hard  road  in  a  swift  run 
like  thunder.  At  the  creek  Hale  pulled  in  and 
looked  around.  June's  bonnet  was  down,  her  hair 
was  tossed,  her  eyes  were  sparkling  fearlessly,  and 
her  face  was  flushed  with  joy. 

"Like  it,  June?" 

"  I  never  did  know  nothing  like  it." 

"You  weren't  scared?" 

"Skeered  o'  what?"  she  asked,  and  Hale  won- 


THE  TRAIL  OF  THE  LONESOME  PINE 

dered  if  there  was  anything  of  which  she  would  be 
afraid. 

They  were  entering  the  Gap  now  and  June's  eyes 
got  big  with  wonder  over  the  mighty  up-shooting 
peaks  and  the  rushing  torrent. 

"See  that  big  rock  yonder,  June?"  June 
craned  her  neck  to  follow  with  her  eyes  his  out 
stretched  finger. 

"Uh,  huh." 

"Well,  that's  called  Bee  Rock,  because  it's  cov 
ered  with  flowers — purple  rhododendrons  and 
laurel — and  bears  used  to  go  there  for  wild  honey. 
They  say  that  once  on  a  time  folks  around  here 
put  whiskey  in  the  honey  and  the  bears  got  so 
drunk  that  people  came  and  knocked  'em  in  the 
head  with  clubs." 

"Well,  what  do  you  think  o'  that!"  said  June 
wonderingly. 

Before  them  a  big  mountain  loomed,  and  a  few 
minutes  later,  at  the  mouth  of  the  Gap,  Hale 
stopped  and  turned  his  horse  sidewise. 

"There  we  are,  June,"  he  said. 

June  saw  the  lovely  little  valley  rimmed  with  big 
mountains.  She  could  follow  the  course  of  the 
two  rivers  that  encircled  it  by  the  trees  that  fringed 
their  banks,  and  she  saw  smoke  rising  here  and  there 
and  that  was  all.  She  was  a  little  disappointed. 

"It's  mighty  purty,"  she  said,  "I  never  seed" 
— she  paused,  but  went  on  without  correcting  her 
self — "so  much  level  land  in  all  my  life." 

116 


THE  TRAIL  OF  THE  LONESOME  PINE 

The  morning  mail  had  just  come  in  as  they  rode 
by  the  post-office  and  several  men  hailed  her 
escort,  and  all  stared  with  some  wonder  at  her. 
Hale  smiled  to  himself,  drew  up  for  none  and  put 
on  a  face  of  utter  unconsciousness  that  he  was  do 
ing  anything  unusual.  June  felt  vaguely  uncom 
fortable.  Ahead  of  them,  when  they  turned  the 
corner  of  the  street,  her  eyes  fell  on  a  strange  tall 
red  house  with  yellow  trimmings,  that  was  not 
built  of  wood  and  had  two  sets  of  windows  one 
above  the  other,  and  before  that  Hale  drew  up. 

"Here  we  are.    Get  down,  little  girl." 

"Good-morning!"  said  a  voice.  Hale  looked 
around  and  flushed,  and  June  looked  around  and 
stared — transfixed  as  by  a  vision  from  another 
world — at  the  dainty  figure  behind  them  in  a  walk 
ing  suit,  a  short  skirt  that  showed  two  little  feet 
in  laced  tan  boots  and  a  cap  with  a  plume,  under 
which  was  a  pair  of  wide  blue  eyes  with  long 
lashes,  and  a  mouth  that  suggested  active  mischief 
and  gentle  mockery. 

"Oh,  good-morning,"  said  Hale,  and  he  added 
gently,  "Get  down,  June!" 

The  little  girl  slipped  to  the  ground  and  began 
pulling  her  bonnet  on  with  both  hands — but  the 
newcomer  had  caught  sight  of  the  Psyche  knot 
that  made  June  look  like  a  little  old  woman 
strangely  young,  and  the  mockery  at  her  lips  was 
gently  accentuated  by  a  smile.  Hale  swung  from 
his  saddle. 

117 


THE  TRAIL  OF  THE  LONESOME  PINE 

"This  is  the  little  girl  I  told  you  about,  Miss 
Anne,"  he  said.  "She's  come  over  to  go  to 
school."  Instantly,  almost,  Miss  Anne  had  been 
melted  by  the  forlorn  looking  little  creature  who 
stood  before  her,  shy  for  the  moment  and  dumb, 
and  she  came  forward  with  her  gloved  hand  out 
stretched.  But  June  had  seen  that  smile.  She 
gave  her  hand,  and  Miss  Anne  straightway  was  no 
little  surprised;  there  was  no  more  shyness  in  the 
dark  eyes  that  blazed  from  the  recesses  of  the  sun- 
bonnet,  and  Miss  Anne  was  so  startled  when  she 
looked  into  them  that  all  she  could  say  was: 
"Dear  me!"  A  portly  woman  with  a  kind  face 
appeared  at  the  door  of  the  red  brick  house  and 
came  to  the  gate. 

"Here  she  is,  Mrs.  Crane,"  called  Hale. 

"Howdye,  June!"  said  the  Widow  Crane 
kindly.  "Come  right  in!"  In  her  June  knew 
straightway  she  had  a  friend  and  she  picked  up 
her  bundle  and  followed  upstairs — the  first  real 
stairs  she  had  ever  seen — and  into  a  room  on  the 
floor  of  which  was  a  rag  carpet.  There  was  a  bed 
in  one  corner  with  a  white  counterpane  and  a 
washstand  with  a  bowl  and  pitcher,  which,  too,  she 
had  never  seen  before. 

"Make  yourself  at  home  right  now,"  said  the 
Widow  Crane,  pulling  open  a  drawer  under  a  big 
looking-glass — "and  put  your  things  here.  That's 
your  bed,"  and  out  she  went. 

How  clean  it  was!  There  were  some  flowers  in 
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THE  TRAIL  OF  THE  LONESOME  PINE 

a  glass  vase  on  the  mantel.  There  were  white 
curtains  at  the  big  window  and  a  bed  to  herself — 
her  own  bed.  She  went  over  to  the  window. 
There  was  a  steep  bank,  lined  with  rhododendrons, 
right  under  it.  There  was  a  mill-dam  below  and 
down  the  stream  she  could  hear  the  creaking  of  a 
water-wheel,  and  she  could  see  it  dripping  and 
shining  in  the  sun — a  gristmill!  She  thought  of 
Uncle  Billy  and  ole  Hon,  and  in  spite  of  a  little 
pang  of  home-sickness  she  felt  no  loneliness  at  all. 

"  I  knew  she  would  be  pretty,"  said  Miss  Anne 
at  the  gate  outside. 

"  I  told  you  she  was  pretty/'  said  Hale. 

"But  not  so  pretty  as  that"  said  Miss  Anne. 
"We  will  be  great  friends." 

"  I  hope  so — for  her  sake,"  said  Hale. 

Hale  waited  till  noon-recess  was  nearly  over,  and 
then  he  went  to  take  June  to  the  school-house. 
He  was  told  that  she  was  in  her  room  and  he  went 
up  and  knocked  at  the  door.  There  was  no  an 
swer — for  one  does  not  knock  on  doors  for  en 
trance  in  the  mountains,  and,  thinking  he  had 
made  a  mistake,  he  was  about  to  try  another  room, 
when  June  opened  the  door  to  see  what  the  matter 
was.  She  gave  him  a  glad  smile. 

"Come  on,"  he  said,  and  when  she  went  for  her 
bonnet,  he  stepped  into  the  room. 

"How  do  you  like  it?"  June  nodded  toward 
the  window  and  Hale  went  to  it. 

119 


THE  TRAIL  OF  THE  LONESOME  PINE 

"Thar's  Uncle  Billy's  mill  out  thar." 

"Why,  so  it  is,"  said  Hale  smiling.  "That's 
fine." 

The  school-house,  to  June's  wonder,  had 
shingles  on  the  outside  around  all  the  walls  from 
roof  to  foundation,  and  a  big  bell  hung  on  top  of 
it  under  a  little  shingled  roof  of  its  own.  A  pale 
little  man  with  spectacles  and  pale  blue  eyes  met 
them  at  the  door  and  he  gave  June  a  pale,  slender 
hand  and  cleared  his  throat  before  he  spoke  to  her. 

"She's  never  been  to  school,"  said  Hale;  "she 
can  read  and  spell,  but  she's  not  very  strong  on 
arithmetic." 

"Very  well,  I'll  turn  her  over  to  the  primary." 
The  school-bell  sounded;  Hale  left  with  a  parting 
prophecy — "You'll  be  proud  of  her  some  day" — 
at  which  June  blushed  and  then,  with  a  beating 
heart,  she  followed  the  little  man  into  his  office. 
A  few  minutes  later,  the  assistant  came  in,  and 
she  was  none  other  than  the  wonderful  young 
woman  whom  Hale  had  called  Miss  Anne.  There 
were  a  few  instructions  in  a  halting  voice  and  with 
much  clearing  of  the  throat  from  the  pale  little 
man;  and  a  moment  later  June  walked  the  gaunt 
let  of  the  eyes  of  her  schoolmates,  every  one  of 
whom  looked  up  from  his  book  or  hers  to  watch 
her  as  she  went  to  her  seat.  Miss  Anne  pointed  out 
the  arithmetic  lesson  and,  without  lifting  her  eyes, 
June  bent  with  a  flushed  face  to  her  task.  It 
reddened  with  shame  when  she  was  called  to  the 

1 20 


THE  TRAIL  OF  THE  LONESOME  PINE 

class,  for  she  sat  on  the  bench,  taller  by  a  head  and 
more  than  any  of  the  boys  and  girls  thereon,  ex 
cept  one  awkward  youth  who  caught  her  eye  and 
grinned  with  unashamed  companionship.  The 
teacher  noticed  her  look  and  understood  with  a 
sudden  keen  sympathy,  and  naturally  she  was 
struck  by  the  fact  that  the  new  pupil  was  the  only 
one  who  never  missed  an  answer. 

"  She  won't  be  there  long,"  Miss  Anne  thought, 
and  she  gave  June  a  smile  for  which  the  little  girl 
was  almost  grateful.  June  spoke  to  no  one,  but 
walked  through  her  schoolmates  homeward, 
when  school  was  over,  like  a  haughty  young 
queen.  Miss  Anne  had  gone  ahead  and  was 
standing  at  the  gate  talking  with  Mrs.  Crane,  and 
the  young  woman  spoke  to  June  most  kindly. 

"Mr.  Hale  has  been  called  away  on  business," 
she  said,  and  June's  heart  sank — "and  I'm  going 
to  take  care  of  you  until  he  comes  back." 

"I'm  much  obleeged,"  she  said,  and  while  she 
was  not  ungracious,  her  manner  indicated  her 
belief  that  she  could  take  care  of  herself.  And 
Miss  Anne  felt  uncomfortably  that  this  extraor 
dinary  young  person  was  steadily  measuring  her 
from  head  to  foot.  June  saw  the  smart  close- 
fitting  gown,  the  dainty  little  boots,  and  the  care 
fully  brushed  hair.  She  noticed  how  white  her 
teeth  were  and  her  hands,  and  she  saw  that  the 
nails  looked  polished  and  that  the  tips  of  them 
were  like  little  white  crescents;  and  she  could  still 

121 


THE  TRAIL  OF  THE  LONESOME  PINE 

see  every  detail  when  she  sat  at  her  window,  look 
ing  down  at  the  old  mill.  She  saw  Mr.  Hale  when 
he  left,  the  young  lady  had  said;  and  she  had  a 
headache  now  and  was  going  home  to  lie  down. 
She  understood  now  what  Hale  meant,  on  the 
mountainside  when  she  was  so  angry  with  him. 
She  was  learning  fast,  and  most  from  the  two  per 
sons  who  were  not  conscious  what  they  were 
teaching  her.  And  she  would  learn  in  the  school, 
too,  for  the  slumbering  ambition  in  her  suddenly 
became  passionately  definite  now.  She  went  to 
the  mirror  and  looked  at  her  hair — she  would 
learn  how  to  plait  that  in  two  braids  down  her 
back,  as  the  other  school-girls  did.  She  looked  at 
her  hands  and  straightway  she  fell  to  scrubbing 
them  with  soap  as  she  had  never  scrubbed  them 
before.  As  she  worked,  she  heard  her  name 
called  and  she  opened  the  door. 

"Yes,  mam!"  she  answered,  for  already  she 
had  picked  that  up  in  the  school-room. 

"Come  on,  June,  and  go  down  the  street  with 


me." 


"Yes,  mam,"  she  repeated,  and  she  wiped  her 
hands  and  hurried  down.  Mrs.  Crane  had  looked 
through  the  girl's  pathetic  wardrobe,  while  she 
was  at  school  that  afternoon,  had  told  Hale  before 
he  left  and  she  had  a  surprise  for  little  June.  To 
gether  they  went  down  the  street  and  into  the  chief 
store  in  town  and,  to  June's  amazement,  Mrs. 
Crane  began  ordering  things  for  "this  little  girl." 

122 


THE  TRAIL  OF  THE  LONESOME  PINE 

"Who's  a-goin'  to  pay  fer  all  these  things?" 
whispered  June,  aghast. 

"Don't  you  bother,  honey.  Mr.  Hale  said  he 
would  fix  all  that  with  your  pappy.  It's  some  coal 
deal  or  something — don't  you  bother!"  And 
June  in  a  quiver  of  happiness  didn't  bother. 
Stockings,  petticoats,  some  soft  stuff  for  a  new 
dress  and  tan  shoes  that  looked  like  the  ones  that 
wonderful  young  woman  wore  and  then  some  long 
white  things. 

"What's  them  fer?"  she  whispered,  but  the 
clerk  heard  her  and  laughed,  whereat  Mrs.  Crane 
gave  him  such  a  glance  that  he  retired  quickly. 

"Night-gowns,  honey." 

"You  sleep  in  'em?"  said  June  in  an  awed 
voice. 

"That's  just  what  you  do,"  said  the  good  old 
woman,  hardly  less  pleased  than  June. 

"My,  but  you've  got  pretty  feet." 

"I  wish  they  were  half  as  purty  as— 

"Well,  they  are,"  interrupted  Mrs.  Crane  a 
little  snappishly;  apparently  she  did  not  like 
Miss  Anne. 

"Wrap  'em  up  and  Mr.  Hale  will  attend  to  the 
bill." 

"All  right,"  said  the  clerk  looking  much  mys 
tified. 

Outside  the  door,  June  looked  up  into  the 
beaming  goggles  of  the  Hon.  Samuel  Budd. 

"Is  this  the  little  girl?  How  dye,  June,"  he 
123 


THE  TRAIL  OF  THE  LONESOME  PINE 

said,  and  June  put  her  hand  in  the  Hon.  Sam's 
with  a  sudden  trust  in  his  voice. 

"  I'm  going  to  help  take  care  of  you,  too,"  said 
Mr.  Budd,  and  June  smiled  at  him  with  shy  grat 
itude.  How  kind  everybody  was! 

"I'm  much  obleeged,"  she  said,  and  she  and 
Mrs.  Crane  went  on  back  with  their  bundles. 

June's  hands  so  trembled  when  she  found  her 
self  alone  with  her  treasures  that  she  could  hardly 
unpack  them.  When  she  had  folded  and  laid 
them  away,  she  had  to  unfold  them  to  look  at 
them  again.  She  hurried  to  bed  that  night  merely 
that  she  might  put  on  one  of  those  wonderful 
night-gowns,  and  again  she  had  to  look  all  her 
treasures  over.  She  was  glad  that  she  had  brought 
the  doll  because  he  had  given  it  to  her,  but  she 
said  to  herself  "I'm  a-gittin'  too  big  now  fer 
dolls!"  and  she  put  it  away.  Then  she  set  the 
lamp  on  the  mantel-piece  so  that  she  could  see 
herself  in  her  wonderful  night-gown.  She  let  her 
shining  hair  fall  like  molten  gold  around  her  shoul 
ders,  and  she  wondered  whether  she  could  ever 
look  like  the  dainty  creature  that  just  now  was 
the  model  she  so  passionately  wanted  to  be  like. 
Then  she  blew  out  the  lamp  and  sat  a  while  by  the 
window,  looking  down  through  the  rhododendrons, 
at  the  shining  water  and  at  the  old  water-wheel 
sleepily  at  rest  in  the  moonlight.  She  knelt  down 
then  at  her  bedside  to  say  her  prayers — as  her 
dead  sister  had  taught  her  to  do — and  she  asked 

124 


THE  TRAIL  OF  THE  LONESOME  PINE 

God  to  bless  Jack — wondering  as  she  prayed  that 
she  had  heard  nobody  else  call  him  Jack — and 
then  she  lay  down  with  her  breast  heaving.  She 
had  told  him  she  would  never  do  that  again,  but 
she  couldn't  help  it  now — the  tears  came  and  from 
happiness  she  cried  herself  softly  to  sleep. 


125 


XIII 

T  TALE  rode  that  night  under  a  brilliant  moon 
•*•-"-  to  the  worm  of  a  railroad  that  had  been 
creeping  for  many  years  toward  the  Gap.  The 
head  of  it  was  just  protruding  from  the  Natural 
Tunnel  twenty  miles  away.  There  he  sent  his 
horse  back,  slept  in  a  shanty  till  morning,  and  then 
the  train  crawled  through  a  towering  bench  of 
rock.  The  mouth  of  it  on  the  other  side  opened 
into  a  mighty  amphitheatre  with  solid  rock  walls 
shooting  vertically  hundreds  of  feet  upward. 
Vertically,  he  thought — with  the  back  of  his  head 
between  his  shoulders  as  he  looked  up — they  were 
more  than  vertical — they  were  actually  concave. 
The  Almighty  had  not  only  stored  riches  immeas 
urable  in  the  hills  behind  him — He  had  driven 
this  passage  Himself  to  help  puny  man  to  reach 
the-~,  and  yet  the  wretched  road  was  going  toward 
them  like  a  snail.  On  the  fifth  night,  thereafter 
he  was  back  there  at  the  tunnel  again  from  New 
York — with  a  grim  mouth  and  a  happy  eye.  He 
had  brought  success  with  him  this  time  and  there 
was  no  sleep  for  him  that  night.  He  had  been  de 
layed  by  a  wreck,  it  was  two  o'clock  in  the  morn 
ing,  and  not  a  horse  was  available;  so  he  started 

126 


THE  TRAIL  OF  THE  LONESOME  PINE 

those  twenty  miles  afoot,  and  day  was  breaking 
when  he  looked  down  on  the  little  valley  shrouded 
in  mist  and  just  wakening  from  sleep. 

Things  had  been  moving  while  he  was  away, 
as  he  quickly  learned.  The  English  were  buying 
lands  right  and  left  at  the  gap  sixty  miles  south 
west.  Two  companies  had  purchased  most  of  the 
town-site  where  he  was — his  town-site — and  were 
going  to  pool  their  holdings  and  form  an  improve 
ment  company.  But  a  good  deal  was  left,  and 
straightway  Hale  got  a  map  from  his  office  and 
with  it  in  his  hand  walked  down  the  curve  of  the 
river  and  over  Poplar  Hill  and  beyond.  Early 
breakfast  was  ready  when  he  got  back  to  the 
hotel.  He  swallowed  a  cup  of  coffee  so  hastily 
that  it  burned  him,  and  June,  when  she  passed  his 
window  on  her  way  to  school,  saw  him  busy  over 
his  desk.  She  started  to  shout  to  him,  but  he 
looked  so  haggard  and  grim  that  she  was  afraid, 
and  went  on,  vaguely  hurt  by  a  preoccupation  that 
seemed  quite  to  have  excluded  her.  For  two 
hours  then,  Hale  haggled  and  bargained,  and  at 
ten  o'clock  he  went  to  the  telegraph  office.  The 
operator  who  was  speculating  in  a  small  way  him 
self  smiled  when  he  read  the  telegram. 

"A  thousand  an  acre?"  he  repeated  with  a 
whistle.  "You  could  have  got  that  at  twenty-five 
per — three  months  ago/' 

"I  know,"  said  Hale,  "there's  time  enough 
yet."  Then  he  went  to  his  room,  pulled  the 

127 


. 


THE  TRAIL  OF  THE  LONESOME  PINE 

blinds  down  and  went  to  sleep,  while  rumour 
played  with  his  name  through  the  town. 

It  was  nearly  the  closing  hour  of  school  when, 
dressed  and  freshly  shaven,  he  stepped  out  into  the 
pale  afternoon  and  walked  up  toward  the  school- 
house.  The  children  were  pouring  out  of  the 
doors.  At  the  gate  there  was  a  sudden  commo 
tion,  he  saw  a  crimson  figure  flash  into  the  group 
that  had  stopped  there,  and  flash  out,  and  then 
June  came  swiftly  toward  him  followed  closely  by 
a  tall  boy  with  a  cap  on  his  head.  That  far  away 
he  could  see  that  she  was  angry  and  he  hurried 
toward  her.  Her  face  was  white  with  rage,  her 
mouth  was  tight  and  her  dark  eyes  were  aflame. 
Then  from  the  group  another  tall  boy  darted  out 
and  behind  him  ran  a  smaller  one,  bellowing. 
Hale  heard  the  boy  with  the  cap  call  kindly: 

"  Hold  on,  little  girl !  I  won't  let  'em  touch  you." 
June  stopped  with  him  and  Hale  ran  to  them. 

"Here,"  he  called,  "what's  the  matter?" 

June  burst  into  crying  when  she  saw  him  and 
leaned  over  the  fence  sobbing.  The  tall  lad  with 
the  cap  had  his  back  to  Hale,  and  he  waited  till 
the  other  two  boys  came  up.  Then  he  pointed  to 
the  smaller  one  and  spoke  to  Hale  without  looking 
around. 

"Why,  that  little  skate  there  was  teasing  this 
little  girl  and " 

"She  slapped  him,"  said  Hale  grimly.  The 
lad  with  the  cap  turned.  His  eyes  were  dancing 

128 


THE  TRAIL  OF  THE  LONESOME  PINE 

and  the  shock  of  curly  hair  that  stuck  from  his 
absurd  little  cap  shook  with  his  laughter. 

"Slapped  him!  She  knocked  him  as  flat  as  a 
pancake." 

"Yes,  an'  you  said  you'd  stand  fer  her,"  said 
the  other  tall  boy  who  was  plainly  a  mountain  lad. 
He  was  near  bursting  with  rage. 

"You  bet  I  will,"  said  the  boy  with  the  cap 
heartily,  "right  now!"  and  he  dropped  his  books 
to  the  ground. 

"Hold  on!"  said  Hale,  jumping  between  them. 
"You  ought  to  be  ashamed  of  yourself,"  he  said 
to  the  mountain  boy. 

"I  wasn't  atter  the  gal,"  he  said  indignantly. 
"I  was  comin'  fer  him." 

The  boy  with  the  cap  tried  to  get  away  from 
Hale's  grasp. 

"No  use,  sir,"  he  said  coolly.  "You'd  better 
let  us  settle  it  now.  We'll  have  to  do  it  some  time. 
I  know  the  breed.  He'll  fight  all  right  and  there's 
no  use  puttin'  it  off.  It's  got  to  come." 

"You  bet  it's  got  to  come,"  said  the  mountain 
lad.  "You  can't  call  my  brother  names." 

"Well,  he  is  a  skate,"  said  the  boy  with  the 
cap,  with  no  heat  at  all  in  spite  of  his  indignation, 
and  Hale  wondered  at  his  aged  calm. 

"Every  one  of  you  little  tads,"  he  went  on 
coolly,  waving  his  hand  at  the  gathered  group, 
"is  a  skate  who  teases  this  little  girl.  And  you 
older  boys  are  skates  for  letting  the  little  ones  do 

129 


THE  TRAIL  OF  THE  LONESOME  PINE 

it,  the  whole  pack  of  you — and  I'm  going  to  spank 
any  little  tadpole  who  does  it  hereafter,  and  I'm 
going  to  punch  the  head  off  any  big  one  who 
allows  it.  It's  got  to  stop  now!"  And  as  Hale 
dragged  him  off  he  added  to  the  mountain  boy, 
"and  I'm  going  to  begin  with  you  whenever  you 
say  the  word."  Hale  was  laughing  now. 

"You  don't  seem  to  understand,"  he  said,  "this 
is  my  affair." 

"I  beg  your  pardon,  sir,  I  don't  understand." 

"Why,  I'm  taking  care  of  this  little  girl." 

"Oh,  well,  you  see  I  didn't  know  that.  I've 
only  been  here  two  days.  But" — his  frank,  gen 
erous  face  broke  into  a  winning  smile — "you 
don't  go  to  school.  You'll  let  me  watch  out  for 
her  there?" 

"Sure!    I'll  be  very  grateful." 

"Not  at  all,  sir — not  at  all.  It  was  a  great 
pleasure  and  I  think  I'll  have  lots  of  fun."  He 
looked  at  June,  whose  grateful  eyes  had  hardly 
left  his  face. 

"  So  don't  you  soil  your  little  fist  any  more  with 
any  of  'em,  but  just  tell  me — er — er " 

"June,"  she  said,  and  a  shy  smile  came  through 
her  tears. 

"June,"  he  finished  with  a  boyish  laugh. 
"Good-by,  sir." 

"You  haven't  told  me  your  name." 

"I  suppose  you  know  my  brothers,  sir,  the 
Berkleys." 

130 


THE  TRAIL  OF  THE  LONESOME  PINE 

"I  should  say  so,"  and  Hale  held  out  his  hand. 
"You're  Bob?'' 

"Yes,  sir." 

"  I  knew  you  were  coming,  and  I'm  mighty  glad 
to  see  you.  I  hope  you  and  June  will  be  good 
friends  and  I'll  be  very  glad  to  have  you  watch 
over  her  when  I'm  away." 

"I'd  like  nothing  better,  sir,"  he  said  cheer 
fully,  and  quite  impersonally  as  far  as  June  was 
concerned.  Then  his  eyes  lighted  up. 

"My  brothers  don't  seem  to  want  me  to  join 
the  Police  Guard.  Won't  you  say  a  word  for  me  ?" 

"I  certainly  will." 

"Thank  you,  sir." 

That  "sir"  no  longer  bothered  Hale.  At  first 
he  had  thought  it  a  mark  of  respect  to  his  superior 
age,  and  he  was  not  particularly  pleased,  but  when 
he  knew  now  that  the  lad  was  another  son  of  the 
old  gentleman  whom  he  saw  riding  up  the  valley 
every  morning  on  a  gray  horse,  with  several  dogs 
trailing  after  him — he  knew  the  word  was  merely 
a  family  characteristic  of  old-fashioned  courtesy. 

"Isn't  he  nice,  June?" 

"Yes,"  she  said. 

"Have  you  missed  me,  June  ?" 

June  slid  her  hand  into  his.  "I'm  so  glad  you 
come  back."  They  were  approaching  the  gate 
now. 

"June,  you  said  you  weren't  going  to  cry  any 
more."  June's  head  drooped. 


THE  TRAIL  OF  THE  LONESOME  PINE 

"I  know,  but  I  jes'  can't  help  it  when  I  git 
mad,"  she  said  seriously.  "I'd  bust  if  I  didn't." 

"All  right,"  said  Hale  kindly. 

"I've  cried  twice,"  she  said. 

"What  were  you  mad  about  the  other  time  ?" 

"I  wasn't  mad." 

"Then  why  did  you  cry,  June  ?" 

Her  dark  eyes  looked  full  at  him  a  moment  and 
then  her  long  lashes  hid  them. 

"Cause  you  was  so  good  to  me." 

Hale  choked  suddenly  and  patted  her  on  the 
shoulder. 

"Go  in,  now,  little  girl,  and  study.  Then  you 
must  take  a  walk.  I've  got  some  work  to  do. 
I'll  see  you  at  supper  time." 

"All  right,"  said  June.  She  turned  at  the  gate 
to  watch  Hale  enter  the  hotel,  and  as  she  started 
indoors,  she  heard  a  horse  coming  at  a  gallop  and 
she  turned  again  to  see  her  cousin,  Dave  Tolliver, 
pull  up  in  front  of  the  house.  She  ran  back  to  the 
gate  and  then  she  saw  that  he  was  swaying  in  his 
saddle. 

"Hello,  June!"  he  called  thickly. 

Her  face  grew  hard  and  she  made  no  answer. 

"I've  come  over  to  take  ye  back  home." 

She  only  stared  at  him  rebukingly,  and  he 
straightened  in  his  saddle  with  an  effort  at  self- 
control — but  his  eyes  got  darker  and  he  looked  ugly. 

"D'you  hear  me?  I've  come  over  to  take  ye 
home." 

132 


THE  TRAIL  OF  THE  LONESOME  PINE 

"  You  oughter  be  ashamed  o'  yourself,"  she  said 
hotly,  and  she  turned  to  go  back  into  the  house. 

"Oh,  you  ain't  ready  now.  Well,  git  ready  an' 
we'll  start  in  the  mornin'.  I'll  be  aroun'  fer  ye 
'bout  the  break  o'  day." 

He  whirled  his  horse  with  an  oath — June  was 
gone.  She  saw  him  ride  swaying  down  the  street 
and  she  ran  across  to  the  hotel  and  found  Hale 
sitting  in  the  office  with  another  man.  Hale  saw  her 
entering  the  door  swiftly,  he  knew  something  was 
wrong  and  he  rose  to  meet  her. 

"Dave's  here,"  she  whispered  hurriedly,  "an' 
he  says  he's  come  to  take  me  home." 

"Well,"  said  Hale,  "he  won't  do  it,  will  he?" 
June  shook  her  head  and  then  she  said  signifi 
cantly: 

"  Dave's  drinkin'." 

H ale's  brow  clouded.  Straightway  he  foresaw 
trouble — but  he  said  cheerily: 

"All  right.  You  go  back  and  keep  in  the  house 
and  I'll  be  over  by  and  by  and  we'll  talk  it  over." 
And,  without  another  word,  she  went.  She  had 
meant  to  put  on  her  new  dress  and  her  new  shoes 
and  stockings  that  night  that  Hale  might  see  her 
— but  she  was  in  doubt  about  doing  it  when  she 
got  to  her  room.  She  tried  to  study  her  lessons  for 
the  next  day,  but  she  couldn't  fix  her  mind  on 
them.  She  wondered  if  Dave  might  not  get  into 
a  fight  or,  perhaps,  he  would  get  so  drunk  that  he 
would  go  to  sleep  somewhere — she  knew  that  men 

133 


THE  TRAIL  OF  THE  LONESOME  PINE 

did  that  after  drinking  very  much — and,  anyhow, 
he  would  not  bother  her  until  next  morning,  and 
then  he  would  be  sober  and  would  go  quietly  back 
home.  She  was  so  comforted  that  she  got  to 
thinking  about  the  hair  of  the  girl  who  sat  in  front 
of  her  at  school.  It  was  plaited  and  she  had 
studied  just  how  it  was  done  and  she  began  to 
wonder  whether  she  could  fix  her  own  that  way. 
So  she  got  in  front  of  the  mirror  and  loosened  hers 
in  a  mass  about  her  shoulders — the  mass  that 
was  to  Hale  like  the  golden  bronze  of  a  wild  tur 
key's  wing.  The  other  girl's  plaits  were  the  same 
size,  so  that  the  hair  had  to  be  equally  divided-— 
thus  she  argued  to  herself — but  how  did  that  girl 
manage  to  plait  it  behind  her  back  ?  She  did  it 
in  front,  of  course,  so  June  divided  the  bronze 
heap  behind  her  and  pulled  one  half  of  it  in  front 
of  her  and  then  for  a  moment  she  was  helpless. 
Then  she  laughed — it  must  be  done  like  the  grass- 
blades  and  strings  she  had  plaited  for  Bub,  of 
course,  so,  dividing  that  half  into  three  parts,  she 
did  the  plaiting  swiftly  and  easily.  When  it  was 
finished  she  looked  at  the  braid,  much  pleased — 
for  it  hung  below  her  waist  and  was  much  longer 
than  any  of  the  other  girls'  at  school.  The  transi 
tion  was  easy  now,  so  interested  had  she  become. 
She  got  out  her  tan  shoes  and  stockings  and  the 
pretty  white  dress  and  put  them  on.  The  mill- 
pond  was  dark  with  shadows  now,  and  she  went 
down  the  stairs  and  out  to  the  gate  just  as  Dave 

134 


THE  TRAIL  OF  THE  LONESOME  PINE 

again  pulled  up  in  front  of  it.  He  stared  at  the 
vision  wonderingly  and  long,  and  then  he  began 
to  laugh  with  the  scorn  of  soberness  and  the  silli 
ness  of  drink. 

" Ton  ain't  June,  air  ye?"  The  girl  never 
moved.  As  if  by  a  preconcerted  signal  three  men 
moved  toward  the  boy,  and  one  of  them  said 
sternly: 

"Drop  that  pistol.  You  are  under  arrest." 
The  boy  glared  like  a  wild  thing  trapped,  from 
one  to  another  of  the  three — a  pistol  gleamed  in 
the  hand  of  each — and  slowly  thrust  his  own 
weapon  into  his  pocket. 

"Get  off  that  horse,"  added  the  stern  voice. 
Just  then  Hale  rushed  across  the  street  and  the 
mountain  youth  saw  him. 

"Ketch  his  pistol,"  cried  June,  in  terror  for 
Hale — for  she  knew  what  was  coming,  and  one  of 
the  men  caught  with  both  hands  the  wrist  of 
Dave's  arm  as  it  shot  behind  him. 

"Take  him  to  the  calaboose!" 

At  that  June  opened  the  gate — that  disgrace 
she  could  never  stand — but  Hale  spoke. 

"I  know  him,  boys.  He  doesn't  mean  any 
harm.  He  doesn't  know  the  regulations  yet. 
Suppose  we  let  him  go  home." 

"All  right,"  said  Logan.  "The  calaboose  or 
home.  Will  you  go  home  ?" 

In  the  moment,  the  mountain  boy  had  appar 
ently  forgotten  his  captors — he  was  staring  at 

135 


THE  TRAIL  OF  THE  LONESOME  PINE 

June  with  wonder,  amazement,  incredulity  strug 
gling  through  the  fumes  in  his  brain  to  his  flushed 
face.  She — a  Tolliver — had  warned  a  stranger 
against  her  own  blood-cousin. 

"Will  you  go  home  ?"  repeated  Logan  sternly, 

The  boy  looked  around  at  the  words,  as  though 
he  were  half  dazed,  and  his  baffled  face  turned 
sick  and  white. 

"Lemme  loose!"  he  said  sullenly.  "I'll  go 
home."  And  he  rode  silently  away,  after  giving 
Hale  a  vindictive  look  that  told  him  plainer  than 
words  that  more  was  yet  to  come.  Hale  had  heard 
June's  warning  cry,  but  now  when  he  looked  for 
her  she  was  gone.  He  went  in  to  supper  and  sat 
down  at  the  table  and  still  she  did  not  come. 

"She's  got  a  surprise  for  you,"  said  Mrs.  Crane, 
smiling  mysteriously.  "She's  been  fixing  for  you 
for  an  hour.  My!  but  she's  pretty  in  them  new 
clothes — why,  June!" 

June  was  coming  in — she  wore  her  homespun, 
her  scarlet  homespun  and  the  Psyche  knot.  She 
did  not  seem  to  have  heard  Mrs.  Crane's  note  of 
wonder,  and  she  sat  quietly  down  in  her  seat. 
Her  face  was  pale  and  she  did  not  look  at  Hale. 
Nothing  was  said  of  Dave — in  fact,  June  said 
nothing  at  all,  and  Hale,  too,  vaguely  understand 
ing,  kept  quiet.  Only  when  he  went  out,  Hale 
called  her  to  the  gate  and  put  one  hand  on  her 
head. 

"I'm  sorry,  little  girl." 
136 


THE  TRAIL  OF  THE  LONESOME  PINE 

The  girl  lifted  her  great  troubled  eyes  to  him, 
but  no  word  passed  her  lips,  and  Hale  helplessly 
left  her. 

June  did  not  cry  that  night.  She  sat  by  the 
window — wretched  and  tearless.  She  had  taken 
sides  with  "furriners"  against  her  own  people. 
That  was  why,  instinctively,  she  had  put  on  her  old 
homespun  with  a  vague  purpose  of  reparation  to 
them.  She  knew  the  story  Dave  would  take  back 
home — the  bitter  anger  that  his  people  and  hers 
would  feel  at  the  outrage  done  him — anger  against 
the  town,  the  Guard,  against  Hale  because  he  was 
a  part  of  both  and  even  against  her.  ,  Dave  was 
merely  drunk,  he  had  simply  shot  off  his  pistol — 
that  was  no  harm  in  the  hills.  And  yet  everybody 
had  dashed  toward  him  as  though  he  had  stolen 
something — even  Hale.  Yes,  even  that  boy  with 
the  cap  who  had  stood  up  for  her  at  school  that 
afternoon — he  had  rushed  up,  his  face  aflame 
with  excitement,  eager  to  take  part  should  Dave 
resist.  She  had  cried  out  impulsively  to  save  Hale, 
but  Dave  would  not  understand.  No,  in  his  eyes 
she  had  been  false  to  family  and  friends — to  the 
clan — she  had  sided  with  "furriners."  What 
would  her  father  say  ?  Perhaps  she'd  better  go 
home  next  day — perhaps  for  good — for  there  was 
a  deep  unrest  within  her  that  she  could  not  fath 
om,  a  premonition  that  she  was  at  the  parting  of 
the  ways,  a  vague  fear  of  the  shadows  that  hung 
about  the  strange  new  path  on  which  her  feet  were 

137 


THE  TRAIL  OF  THE  LONESOME  PINE 

set.  The  old  mill  creaked  in  the  moonlight  below 
her.  Sometimes,  when  the  wind  blew  up  Lone 
some  Cove,  she  could  hear  Uncle  Billy's  wheel 
creaking  just  that  way.  A  sudden  pang  of  home 
sickness  choked  her,  but  she  did  not  cry.  Yes,  she 
would  go  home  next  day.  She  blew  out  the  light 
and  undressed  in  the  dark  as  she  did  at  home  and 
went  to  bed.  And  that  night  the  little  night-gown 
lay  apart  from  her  in  the  drawer — unfolded  and 
untouched. 


138 


XIV 

1DUT  June  did  not  go  home.  Hale  anticipated 
"^  that  resolution  of  hers  and  forestalled  it  by 
being  on  hand  for  breakfast  and  taking  June  over 
to  the  porch  of  his  little  office.  There  he  tried  to 
explain  to  her  that  they  were  trying  to  build  a 
town  and  must  have  law  and  order;  that  they 
must  have  no  personal  feeling  for  or  against  any 
body  and  must  treat  everybody  exactly  alike — no 
other  course  was  fair — and  though  June  could  not 
quite  understand,  she  trusted  him  and  she  said 
she  would  keep  on  at  school  until  her  father  came 
for  her. 

"Do  you  think  he  will  come,  June  ?" 

The  little  girl  hesitated. 

"  I'm  afeerd  he  will,"  she  said,  and  Hale  smiled. 

"Well,  I'll  try  to  persuade  him  to  let  you  stay,  if 
he  does  come." 

June  was  quite  right.  She  had  seen  the  matter 
the  night  before  just  as  it  was.  For  just  at  that 
hour  young  Dave,  sobered,  but  still  on  the  verge 
of  tears  from  anger  and  humiliation,  was  telling 
the  story  of  the  day  in  her  father's  cabin.  The 
old  man's  brows  drew  together  and  his  eyes  grew 
fierce  and  sullen,  both  at  the  insult  to  a  Tolliver 

139 


THE  TRAIL  OF  THE  LONESOME  PINE 

and  at  the  thought  of  a  certain  moonshine  still  up 
a  ravine  not  far  away  and  the  indirect  danger  to  it 
in  any  finicky  growth  of  law  and  order.  Still  he 
had  a  keen  sense  of  justice,  and  he  knew  that 
Dave  had  not  told  all  the  story,  and  from  him 
Dave,  to  his  wonder,  got  scant  comfort — for  an 
other  reason  as  well:  with  a  deal  pending  for  the 
sale  of  his  lands,  the  shrewd  old  man  would  not 
risk  giving  offence  to  Hale — not  until  that  matter 
was  settled,  anyway.  And  so  June  was  safer  from 
interference  just  then  than  she  knew.  But  Dave 
carried  the  story  far  and  wide,  and  it  spread  as  a 
story  can  only  in  the  hills.  So  that  the  two  people 
most  talked  about  among  the  Tollivers  and, 
through  Loretta,  among  the  Falins  as  well,  were 
June  and  Hale,  and  at  the  Gap  similar  talk  would 
come.  Already  Hale's  name  was  on  every  tongue 
in  the  town,  and  there,  because  of  his  recent  pur 
chases  of  town-site  land,  he  was  already,  aside 
from  his  personal  influence,  a  man  of  mysterious 
power. 

Meanwhile,  the  prescient  shadow  of  the  coming 
"boom"  had  stolen  over  the  hills  and  the  work  of 
the  Guard  had  grown  rapidly. 

Every  Saturday  there  had  been  local  lawless 
ness  to  deal  with.  The  spirit  of  personal  liberty 
that  characterized  the  spot  was  traditional.  Here 
for  half  a  century  the  people  of  Wise  County  and 
of  Lee,  whose  border  was  but  a  few  miles  down 
the  river,  came  to  get  their  wool  carded,  their  grist 

140 


THE  TRAIL  OF  THE  LONESOME  PINE 

ground  and  farming  utensils  mended.  Here,  too, 
elections  were  held  viva  voce  under  the  beeches, 
at  the  foot  of  the  wooded  spur  now  known  as  Im- 
boden  Hill.  Here  were  the  muster-days  of  war 
time.  Here  on  Saturdays  the  people  had  come 
together  during  half  a  century  for  sport  and  horse- 
trading  and  to  talk  politics.  Here  they  drank 
apple-jack  and  hard  cider,  chaffed  and  quarrelled 
and  fought  fist  and  skull.  Here  the  bullies  of  the 
two  counties  would  come  together  to  decide  who 
was  the  "best  man."  Here  was  naturally  engen 
dered  the  hostility  between  the  hill-dwellers  of 
Wise  and  the  valley  people  of  Lee,  and  here  was 
fought  a  famous  battle  between  a  famous  bully  of 
Wise  and  a  famous  bully  of  Lee.  On  election  days 
the  country  people  would  bring  in  gingercakes  made 
of  cane-molasses,  bread  homemade  of  Burr  flour 
and  moonshine  and  apple-jack  which  the  candi 
dates  would  buy  and  distribute  through  the 
crowd.  And  always  during  the  afternoon  there 
were  men  who  would  try  to  prove  themselves  the 
best  Democrats  in  the  State  of  Virginia  by  resort 
to  tooth,  fist  and  eye-gouging  thumb.  Then  to 
these  elections  sometimes  would  come  the  Ken- 
tuckians  from  over  the  border  to  stir  up  the  hos 
tility  between  state  and  state,  which  makes  that 
border  bristle  with  enmity  to  this  day.  For  half 
a  century,  then,  all  wild  oats  from  elsewhere 
usually  sprouted  at  the  Gap.  And  thus  the  Gap 
had  been  the  shrine  of  personal  freedom — the 

141 


THE  TRAIL  OF  THE  LONESOME  PINE 

place  where  any  one  individual  had  the  right  to 
do  his  pleasure  with  bottle  and  cards  and  politics 
and  any  other  the  right  to  prove  him  wrong  if  he 
were  strong  enough.  Very  soon,  as  the  Hon. 
Sam  Budd  predicted,  they  had  the  hostility  of  Lee 
concentrated  on  them  as  siding  with  the  county  of 
Wise,  and  they  would  gain,  in  addition  now,  the 
general  hostility  of  the  Kentuckians,  because  as  a 
crowd  of  meddlesome  "furriners"  they  would  be 
siding  with  the  Virginians  in  the  general  enmity 
already  alive.  Moreover,  now  that  the  feud 
threatened  activity  over  in  Kentucky,  more  trouble 
must  come,  too,  from  that  source,  as  the  talk  that 
came  through  the  Gap,  after  young  Dave  Tolliver's 
arrest,  plainly  indicated. 

Town  ordinances  had  been  passed.  The  wild 
centaurs  were  no  longer  allowed  to  ride  up  and 
down  the  plank  walks  of  Saturdays  with  their 
reins  in  their  teeth  and  firing  a  pistol  into  the 
ground  with  either  hand;  they  could  punctuate 
the  hotel  sign  no  more;  they  could  not  ride  at  a 
fast  gallop  through  the  streets  of  the  town,  and, 
Lost  Spirit  of  American  Liberty! — they  could  not 
even  yell.  But  the  lawlessness  of  the  town  itself 
and  its  close  environment  was  naturally  the  first 
objective  point,  and  the  first  problem  involved  was 
moonshine  and  its  faithful  ally  "the  blind  tiger." 
The  "tiger"  is  a  little  shanty  with  an  ever-open 
mouth — a  hole  in  the  door  like  a  post-office  win 
dow.  You  place  your  money  on  the  sill  and,  at  the 

142 


THE  TRAIL  OF  THE  LONESOME  PINE 

ring  of  the  coin,  a  mysterious  arm  emerges  from  the 
hole,  sweeps  the  money  away  and  leaves  a  bottle 
of  white  whiskey.  Thus  you  see  nobody's  face; 
the  owner  of  the  beast  is  safe,  and  so  are  you— 
which  you  might  not  be,  if  you  saw  and  told.  In 
every  little  hollow  about  the  Gap  a  tiger  had  his 
lair,  and  these  were  all  bearded  at  once  by  a  peti 
tion  to  the  county  judge  for  high  license  saloons, 
which  was  granted.  This  measure  drove  the  tigers 
out  of  business,  and  concentrated  moonshine  in 
the  heart  of  the  town,  where  its  devotees  were 
under  easy  guard.  One  "tiger"  only  indeed  was 
left,  run  by  a  round-shouldered  crouching  creature 
whom  Bob  Berkley — now  at  Hale's  solicitation 
a  policeman  and  known  as  the  Infant  of  the 
Guard — dubbed  Caliban.  His  shanty  stood  mid 
way  in  the  Gap,  high  from  the  road,  set  against  a 
dark  clump  of  pines  and  roared  at  by  the  river 
beneath.  Everybody  knew  he  sold  whiskey,  but 
he  was  too  shrewd  to  be  caught,  until,  late  one 
afternoon,  two  days  after  young  Dave's  arrest, 
Hale  coming  through  the  Gap  into  town  glimpsed 
a  skulking  figure  with  a  hand-barrel  as  it  slipped 
from  the  dark  pines  into  Caliban's  cabin.  He 
pulled  in  his  horse,  dismounted  and  deliberated. 
If  he  went  on  down  the  road  now,  they  would  see 
him  and  suspect.  Moreover,  the  patrons  of  the 
tiger  would  not  appear  until  after  dark,  and  he 
wanted  a  prisoner  or  two.  So  Hale  led  his  horse 
up  into  the  bushes  and  came  back  to  a  covert  by 

143 


THE  TRAIL  OF  THE  LONESOME  PINE 

the  roadside  to  watch  and  wait.  As  he  sat  there, 
a  merry  whistle  sounded  down  the  road,  and  Hale 
smiled.  Soon  the  Infant  of  the  Guard  came  along, 
his  hands  in  his  pockets,  his  cap  on  the  back  of  his 
head,  his  pistol  bumping  his  hip  in  manly  fashion 
and  making  the  ravines  echo  with  his  pursed  lips. 
He  stopped  in  front  of  Hale,  looked  toward  the 
river,  drew  his  revolver  and  aimed  it  at  a  floating 
piece  of  wood.  The  revolver  cracked,  the  piece  of 
wood  skidded  on  the  surface  of  the  water  and 
there  was  no  splash. 

"That  was  a  pretty  good  shot,"  said  Hale  in  a 
low  voice.  The  boy  whirled  and  saw  him. 

"Well— what  are  you ?" 

"Easy — easy!"  cautioned  Hale.  "Listen!  I've 
just  seen  a  moonshiner  go  into  Caliban's  cabin." 
The  boy's  eager  eyes  sparkled. 

"Let's  go  after  him." 

"No,  you  go  on  back.  If  you  don't,  they'll  be 
suspicious.  Get  another  man" — Hale  almost 
laughed  at  the  disappointment  in  the  lad's  face  at 
his  first  words,  and  the  joy  that  came  after  it — 
"and  climb  high  above  the  shanty  and  come  back 
here  to  me.  Then  after  dark  we'll  dash  in  and 
cinch  Caliban  and  his  customers." 

"Yes,  sir,"  said  the  lad.  "Shall  I  whistle  going 
back  ?"  Hale  nodded  approval. 

"Just  the  same."  And  ofF  Bob  went,  whistling 
like  a  calliope  and  not  even  turning  his  head  to 
look  at  the  cabin.  In  half  an  hour  Hale  thought 

144 


THE  TRAIL  OF  THE  LONESOME  PINE 

he  heard  something  crashing  through  the  bushes 
high  on  the  mountain  side,  and,  a  little  while  after 
ward,  the  boy  crawled  through  the  bushes  to 
him  alone.  His  cap  was  gone,  there  was  a  bloody 
scratch  across  his  face  and  he  was  streaming  with 
perspiration. 

"  You'll  have  to  excuse  me,  sir,"  he  panted, 
"  I  didn't  see  anybody  but  one  of  my  brothers,  and 
if  I  had  told  him,  he  wouldn't  have  let  me  come. 
And  I  hurried  back  for  fear — for  fear  something 
would  happen." 

"Well,  suppose  I  don't  let  you  go." 

"Excuse  me,  sir,  but  I  don't  see  how  you  can 
very  well  help.  You  aren't  my  brother  and  you 
can't  go  alone." 

"I  was,"  said  Hale. 

"  Yes,  sir,  but  not  now." 

Hale  was  worried,  but  there  was  nothing  else  to 
be  done. 

"All  right.  I'll  let  you  go  if  you  stop  saying 
'sir' to  me.  It  makes  me  feel  so  old." 

"Certainly,  sir,"  said  the  lad  quite  uncon 
sciously,  and  when  Hale  smothered  a  laugh,  he 
looked  around  to  see  what  had  amused  him. 
Darkness  fell  quickly,  and  in  the  gathering  gloom 
they  saw  two  more  figures  skulk  into  the  cabin. 

"We'll  go  now — for  we  want  the  fellow  who's 
selling  the  moonshine." 

Again  Hale  was  beset  with  doubts  about  the 
boy  and  his  own  responsibility  to  the  boy's  broth- 


THE  TRAIL  OF  THE  LONESOME  PINE 

ers.  The  lad's  eyes  were  shining,  but  his  face  was 
more  eager  than  excited  and  his  hand  was  as 
steady  as  Hale's  own. 

"You  slip  around  and  station  yourself  behind 
that  pine-tree  just  behind  the  cabin" — the  boy 
looked  crestfallen — "and  if  anybody  tries  to  get 
out  of  the  back  door — you  halt  him." 

"Is  there  a  back  door?" 

"I  don't  know,"  Hale  said  rather  shortly. 
"You  obey  orders.  I'm  not  your  brother,  but 
I'm  your  captain." 

"I  beg  your  pardon,  sir.    Shall  I  go  now  ?" 

"Yes,  you'll  hear  me  at  the  front  door.  They 
won't  make  any  resistance."  The  lad  stepped 
away  with  nimble  caution  high  above  the  cabin, 
and  he  even  took  his  shoes  off  before  he  slid  lightly 
down  to  his  place  behind  the  pine.  There  was  no 
back  door,  only  a  window,  and  his  disappoint 
ment  was  bitter.  Still,  when  he  heard  Hale  at  the 
front  door,  he  meant  to  make  a  break  for  that 
window,  and  he  waited  in  the  still  gloom.  He 
could  hear  the  rough  talk  and  laughter  within  and 
now  and  then  the  clink  of  a  tin  cup.  By  and  by 
there  was  a  faint  noise  in  front  of  the  cabin,  and 
he  steadied  his  nerves  and  his  beating  heart.  Then 
he  heard  the  door  pushed  violently  in  and  Hale's  cry : 

"Surrender!" 

Hale  stood  on  the  threshold  with  his  pistol  out 
stretched  in  his  right  hand.  The  door  had  struck 
something  soft  and  he  said  sharply  again: 

146 


THE  TRAIL  OF  THE  LONESOME  PINE 

"Come  out  from  behind  that  door — hands 
up!" 

At  the  same  moment,  the  back  window  flew 
open  with  a  bang  and  Bob's  pistol  covered  the 
edge  of  the  opened  door.  "Caliban"  had  rolled 
from  his  box  like  a  stupid  animal.  Two  of  his 
patrons  sat  dazed  and  staring  from  Hale  to  the 
boy's  face  at  the  window.  A  mountaineer  stood 
in  one  corner  with  twitching  ringers  and  shifting 
eyes  like  a  caged  wild  thing  and  forth  issued  from 
behind  the  door,  quivering  with  anger — young 
Dave  Tolliver.  Hale  stared  at  him  amazed,  and 
when  Dave  saw  Hale,  such  a  wave  of  fury  surged 
over  his  face  that  Bob  thought  it  best  to  attract  his 
attention  again;  which  he  did  by  gently  motion 
ing  at  him  with  the  barrel  of  his  pistol. 

"Hold  on,  there,"  he  said  quietly,  and  young 
Dave  stood  still. 

"Climb  through  that  window,  Bob,  and  collect 
the  batteries,"  said  Hale. 

"  Sure,  sir,"  said  the  lad,  and  with  his  pistol  still 
prominently  in  the  foreground  he  threw  his  left 
leg  over  the  sill  and  as  he  climbed  in  he  quoted 
with  a  grunt:  "Always  go  in  force  to  make  an 
arrest."  Grim  and  serious  as  it  was,  with  June's 
cousin  glowering  at  him,  Hale  could  not  help 
smiling. 

"You  didn't  go  home,  after  all,"  said  Hale  to 
young  Dave,  who  clenched  his  hands  and  his 
lips  but  answered  nothing;  "or,  if  you  did, 

H7 


THE  TRAIL  OF  THE  LONESOME  PINE 

you  got  back  pretty  quick."  And  still  Dave  was 
silent. 

"Get  'em  all,  Bob  ?"  In  answer  the  boy  went 
the  rounds — feeling  the  pocket  of  each  man's 
right  hip  and  his  left  breast. 

"Yes,  sir." 

"Unload  'em!" 

The  lad  "broke"  each  of  the  four  pistols, 
picked  up  a  piece  of  twine  and  strung  them  to 
gether  through  each  trigger-guard. 

"Close  that  window  and  stand  here  at  the 
door." 

With  the  boy  at  the  door,  Hale  rolled  the  hand- 
barrel  to  the  threshold  and  the  white  liquor  gur 
gled  joyously  on  the  steps. 

"All  right,  come  along,"  he  said  to  the  captives, 
and  at  last  young  Dave  spoke: 

"  Whut  you  takin'  me  fer  ?" 

Hale  pointed  to  the  empty  hand-barrel  and 
Dave's  answer  was  a  look  of  scorn. 

"I  nuvver  brought  that  hyeh." 

"You  were  drinking  illegal  liquor  in  a  blind 
tiger,  and  if  you  didn't  bring  it  you  can  prove  that 
later.  Anyhow,  we'll  want  you  as  a  witness,"  and 
Hale  looked  at  the  other  mountaineer,  who  had 
turned  his  eyes  quickly  to  Dave.  Caliban  led  the 
way  with  young  Dave,  and  Hale  walked  side  by 
side  with  them  while  Bob  was  escort  for  the  other 
two.  The  road  ran  along  a  high  bank,  and  as  Bob 
was  adjusting  the  jangling  weapons  on  his  left 


THE  TRAIL  OF  THE  LONESOME  PINE 

arm,  the  strange  mountaineer  darted  behind  him 
and  leaped  headlong  into  the  tops  of  thick  rhodo 
dendron.  Before  Hale  knew  what  had  happened 
the  lad's  pistol  flashed. 

"Stop,  boy!"  he  cried,  horrified.  "Don't 
shoot!"  and  he  had  to  catch  the  lad  to  keep  him 
from  leaping  after  the  runaway.  The  shot  had 
missed;  they  heard  the  runaway  splash  into  the 
river  and  go  stumbling  across  it  and  then  there 
was  silence.  Young  Dave  laughed : 

"Uncle  Judd'll  be  over  hyeh  to-morrow  to  see 
about  this."  Hale  said  nothing  and  they  went  on. 
At  the  door  of  the  calaboose  Dave  balked  and 
had  to  be  pushed  in  by  main  force.  They  left  him 
weeping  and  cursing  with  rage. 

"Go  to  bed,  Bob,"  said  Hale. 

"Yes,  sir,"  said  Bob;  "just  as  soon  as  I  get  my 
lessons." 

Hale  did  not  go  to  the  boarding-house  that 
night — he  feared  to  face  June.  Instead  he  went 
to  the  hotel  to  scraps  of  a  late  supper  and  then  to 
bed.  He  had  hardly  touched  the  pillow,  it  seemed, 
when  somebody  shook  him  by  the  shoulder.  It 
was  Macfarlan,  and  daylight  was  streaming 
through  the  window. 

"A  gang  of  those  Falins  are  here,"  Macfarlan 
said,  "and  they're  after  young  Dave  Tolliver — 
about  a  dozen  of  'em.  Young  Buck  is  with  them, 
and  the  sheriff.  They  say  he  shot  a  man  over  the 
mountains  yesterday." 

149 


THE  TRAIL  OF  THE  LONESOME  PINE 

Hale  sprang  for  his  clothes — here  was  a  quan 
dary. 

"If  we  turn  him  over  to  them — they'll  kill 
him."  Macfarlan  nodded. 

"Of  course,  and  if  we  leave  him  in  that  weak 
old  calaboose,  they'll  get  more  help  and  take  him 
out  to-night." 

"Then  we'll  take  him  to  the  county  jail." 

"They'll  take  him  away  from  us." 

"No,  they  won't.  You  go  out  and  get  as  many 
shotguns  as  you  can  find  and  load  them  with 
buckshot." 

Macfarlan  nodded  approvingly  and  disap 
peared.  Hale  plunged  his  face  in  a  basin  of  cold 
water,  soaked  his  hair  and,  as  he  was  mopping  his 
face  with  a  towel,  there  was  a  ponderous  tread  on 
the  porch,  the  door  opened  without  the  formality 
of  a  knock,  and  Devil  Judd  Tolliver,  with  his  hat 
on  and  belted  with  two  huge  pistols,  stepped  stoop 
ing  within.  His  eyes,  red  with  anger  and  loss  of 
sleep,  were  glaring,  and  his  heavy  moustache  and 
beard  showed  the  twitching  of  his  mouth. 

"Whar's  Dave?"  he  said  shortly. 

"In  the  calaboose." 

"Did  you  put  him  in  ?" 

"Yes,"  said  Hale  calmly. 

"Well,  by  God,"  the  old  man  said  with  re 
pressed  fury,  "you  can't  git  him  out  too  soon  if 
you  want  to  save  trouble." 

"Look  here,  Judd,"  said  Hale  seriously.  "You 

15° 


THE  TRAIL  OF  THE  LONESOME  PINE 

are  one  of  the  last  men  in  the  world  I  want  to  have 
trouble  with  for  many  reasons;  but  I'm  an  officer 
over  here  and  I'm  no  more  afraid  of  you" — Hale 
paused  to  let  that  fact  sink  in  and  it  did — "than 
you  are  of  me.  Dave's  been  selling  liquor." 

"He  hain't,"  interrupted  the  old  mountaineer. 
"He  didn't  bring  that  liquor  over  hyeh.  I  know 
who  done  it." 

"All  right,"  said  Hale;  'Til  take  your  word  for 
it  and  I'll  let  him  out,  if  you  say  so,  but " 

"  Right  now,"  thundered  old  Judd. 

"Do  you  know  that  young  Buck  Falin  and  a 
dozen  of  his  gang  are  over  here  after  him  ?"  The 
old  man  looked  stunned. 

"Whut— now?" 

"They're  over  there  in  the  woods  across  the 
river  now  and  they  want  me  to  give  him  up  to 
them.  They  say  they  have  the  sheriff  with  them 
and  they  want  him  for  shooting  a  man  on  Leather- 
wood  Creek,  day  before  yesterday." 

"It's  all  a  lie,"  burst  out  old  Judd.  "They 
want  to  kill  him." 

"Of  course — and  I  was  going  to  take  him  up  to 
the  county  jail  right  away  for  safe-keeping." 

"D'ye  mean  to  say  you'd  throw  that  boy  into 
jail  and  then  fight  them  Falins  to  pertect  him?" 
the  old  man  asked  slowly  and  incredulously. 
Hale  pointed  to  a  two-store  building  through 
his  window. 

"  If  you  get  in  the  back  part  of  that  store  at  a 


THE  TRAIL  OF  THE  LONESOME  PINE 

window,  you  can  see  whether  I  will  or  not.  I  can 
summon  you  to  help,  and  if  a  fight  comes  up  you 
can  do  your  share  from  the  window!" 

The  old  man's  eyes  lighted  up  like  a  leaping 
flame. 

"Will  you  let  Dave  out  and  give  him  a  Win 
chester  and  help  us  fight  'em?"  he  said  eagerly. 
"We  three  can  whip  'em  all." 

"No,"  said  Hale  shortly.  "I'd  try  to  keep 
both  sides  from  fighting,  and  I'd  arrest  Dave  or 
you  as  quickly  as  I  would  a  Falin." 

The  average  mountaineer  has  little  conception 
of  duty  in  the  abstract,  but  old  Judd  belonged  to 
the  better  class — and  there  are  many  of  them — 
that  does.  He  looked  into  Hale's  eyes  long  and 
steadily. 

"All  right." 

Macfarlan  came  in  hurriedly  and  stopped  short 
— seeing  the  hatted,  bearded  giant. 

"This  is  Mr.  Tolliver — an  uncle  of  Dave's — 
Judd  Tolliver,"  said  Hale.  "Go  ahead." 

"I've  got  everything  fixed — but  I  couldn't  get 
but  five  of  the  fellows — two  of  the  Berkley  boys. 
They  wouldn't  let  me  tell  Bob." 

"All  right.  Can  I  summon  Mr.  Tolliver 
here?" 

"Yes,"  said  Macfarlan  doubtfully,  "but  you 
know- 

"He  won't  be  seen,"  interrupted  Hale,  under- 
standingly.  "  He'll  be  at  a  window  in  the  back  of 

152 


THE  TRAIL  OF  THE  LONESOME  PINE 

that  store  and  he  won't  take  part  unless  a  fight 
begins,  and  if  it  does,  we'll  need  him." 

An  hour  later  Devil  Judd  Tolliver  was  in  the 
store  Hale  pointed  out  and  peering  cautiously 
around  the  edge  of  an  open  window  at  the  wooden 
gate  of  the  ramshackle  calaboose.  Several  Falins 
were  there — led  by  young  Buck,  whom  Hale  rec 
ognized  as  the  red-headed  youth  at  the  head  of 
the  tearing  horsemen  who  had  swept  by  him  that 
late  afternoon  when  he  was  coming  back  from  his 
first  trip  to  Lonesome  Cove.  The  old  man  gritted 
his  teeth  as  he  looked  and  he  put  one  of  his  huge 
pistols  on  a  table  within  easy  reach  and  kept  the 
other  clenched  in  his  right  fist.  From  down  the 
street  came  five  horsemen,  led  by  John  Hale. 
Every  man  carried  a  double-barrelled  shotgun,  and 
the  old  man  smiled  and  his  respect  for  Hale  rose 
higher,  high  as  it  already  was,  for  nobody — moun 
taineer  or  not — has  love  for  a  hostile  shotgun. 
The  Falins,  armed  only  with  pistols,  drew  near. 

"Keep  back!"  he  heard  Hale  say  calmly,  and 
they  stopped — young  Buck  alone  going  on. 

"We  want  that  feller,"  said  young  Buck. 

"Well,  you  don't  get  him,"  said  Hale  quietly. 
"He's  our  prisoner.  Keep  back!"  he  repeated, 
motioning  with  the  barrel  of  his  shotgun — and 
young  Buck  moved  backward  to  his  own  men. 
The  old  man  saw  Hale  and  another  man — the  ser 
geant — go  inside  the  heavy  gate  of  the  stockade. 
He  saw  a  boy  in  a  cap,  with  a  pistol  in  one  hand 

153 


THE  TRAIL  OF  THE  LONESOME  PINE 

and  a  strapped  set  of  books  in  the  other,  come 
running  up  to  the  men  with  the  shotguns  and  he 
heard  one  of  them  say  angrily: 

"I  told  you  not  to  come." 

"I  know  you  did,"  said  the  boy  imperturbably. 

"You  go  on  to  school,"  said  another  of  the 
men,  but  the  boy  with  the  cap  shook  his  head  and 
dropped  his  books  to  the  ground.  The  big  gate 
opened  just  then  and  out  came  Hale  and  the  ser 
geant,  and  between  them  young  Dave — his  eyes 
blinking  in  the  sunlight. 

"Damn  ye,"  he  heard  Dave  say  to  Hale.  "I'll 
get  even  with  you  fer  this  some  day" — and  then 
the  prisoner's  eyes  caught  the  horses  and  shotguns 
and  turned  to  the  group  of  Falins  and  he  shrank 
back  utterly  dazed.  There  was  a  movement 
among  the  Falins  and  Devil  Judd  caught  up  his 
other  pistol  and  with  a  grim  smile  got  ready. 
Young  Buck  had  turned  to  his  crowd : 

"Men,"  he  said,  "you  know  I  never  back 
down" — Devil  Judd  knew  that,  too,  and  he  was 
amazed  by  the  words  that  followed — "  an'  if  you 
say  so,  we'll  have  him  or  die;  but  we  ain't  in  our 
own  state  now.  They've  got  the  law  and  the 
shotguns  on  us,  an'  I  reckon  we'd  better  go  slow." 

The  rest  seemed  quite  willing  to  go  slow,  and, 
as  they  put  their  pistols  up,  Devil  Judd  laughed  in 
his  beard.  Hale  put  young  Dave  on  a  horse  and 
the  little  shotgun  cavalcade  quietly  moved  away 
toward  the  county-seat. 

154 


THE  TRAIL  OF  THE  LONESOME  PINE 

The  crestfallen  Falins  dispersed  the  other  way 
after  they  had  taken  a  parting  shot  at  the  Hon. 
Samuel  Budd,  who,  too,  had  a  pistol  in  his  hand. 
Young  Buck  looked  long  at  him — and  then  he 
laughed : 

"You,  too,  Sam  Budd/'  he  said.  "We  folks'll 
rickollect  this  on  election  day."  The  Hon.  Sam 
deigned  no  answer. 

And  up  in  the  store  Devil  Judd  lighted  his  pipe 
and  sat  down  to  think  out  the  strange  code  of  eth 
ics  that  governed  that  police-guard.  Hale  had 
told  him  to  wait  there,  and  it  was  almost  noon  be 
fore  the  boy  with  the  cap  came  to  tell  him  that 
the  Falins  had  all  left  town.  The  old  man  looked 
at  him  kindly. 

"Air  you  the  little  feller  whut  fit  fer  June  ?" 

"Not  yet,"  said  Bob;   "but  it's  coming." 

"Well,  you'll  whoop  him." 

"I'll  do  my  best." 

"Wharisshe?" 

"She's  waiting  for  you  over  at  the  boarding- 
house." 

"Does  she  know  about  this  trouble  ?" 

"Not  a  thing;  she  thinks  you've  come  to  take 
her  home.  The  old  man  made  no  answer,  and 
Bob  led  him  back  toward  Hale's  office.  June 
was  waiting  at  the  gate,  and  the  boy,  lifting  his 
cap,  passed  on.  June's  eyes  were  dark  with 
anxiety. 

"You  come  to  take  me  home,  dad  ?" 

155 


THE  TRAIL  OF  THE  LONESOME  PINE 

"I  been  thinkin'  'bout  it,"  he  said,  with  a 
doubtful  shake  of  his  head. 

June  took  him  upstairs  to  her  room  and  pointed 
out  the  old  water-wheel  through  the  window  and 
her  new  clothes  (she  had  put  on  her  old  homespun 
again  when  she  heard  he  was  in  town),  and  the 
old  man  shook  his  head. 

"I'm  afeerd  'bout  all  these  fixin's — you  won't 
never  be  satisfied  agin  in  Lonesome  Cove." 

"Why,  dad,"  she  said  reprovingly.  "Jack 
says  I  can  go  over  whenever  I  please,  as  soon  as 
the  weather  gits  warmer  and  the  roads  gits  good." 

"I  don't  know,"  said  the  old  man,  still  shaking 
his  head. 

All  through  dinner  she  was  worried.  Devil 
Judd  hardly  ate  anything,  so  embarrassed  was  he 
by  the  presence  of  so  many  "furriners"  and  by 
the  white  cloth  and  table-ware,  and  so  fearful  was 
he  that  he  would  be  guilty  of  some  breach  of  man 
ners.  Resolutely  he  refused  butter,  and  at  the 
third  urging  by  Mrs.  Crane  he  said  firmly,  but 
with  a  shrewd  twinkle  in  his  eye: 

"No,  thank  ye.  I  never  eats  butter  in  town. 
I've  kept  store  myself,"  and  he  was  no  little  pleased 
with  the  laugh  that  went  around  the  table.  The 
fact  was  he  was  generally  pleased  with  June's  envi 
ronment  and,  after  dinner,  he  stopped  teasing 
June. 

"No,  honey,  I  ain't  goin'  to  take  you  away.  I 
want  ye  to  stay  right  where  ye  air.  Be  a  good  girl 

156 


THE  TRAIL  OF  THE  LONESOME  PINE 

now  and  do  whatever  Jack  Hale  tells  ye  and  tell 
that  boy  with  all  that  hair  to  come  over  and 
see  me."  June  grew  almost  tearful  with  grat 
itude,  for  never  had  he  called  her  "honey"  be 
fore  that  she  could  remember,  and  never  had  he 
talked  so  much  to  her,  nor  with  so  much  kind 
ness. 

"Air  ye  comin'  over  soon  ?" 

"Mighty  soon,  dad." 

"Well,  take  keer  o'  yourself." 

"  I  will,  dad,"  she  said,  and  tenderly  she  watched 
his  great  figure  slouch  out  of  sight. 

An  hour  after  dark,  as  old  Judd  sat  on  the 
porch  of  the  cabin  in  Lonesome  Cove,  young  Dave 
Tolliver  rode  up  to  the  gate  on  a  strange  horse. 
He  was  in  a  surly  mood. 

"He  lemme  go  at  the  head  of  the  valley  and 
give  me  this  hoss  to  git  here,"  the  boy  grudgingly 
explained.  "I'm  goin'  over  to  git  mine  ter- 


morrer." 


"Seems  like  you'd  better  keep  away  from  that 
Gap,"  said  the  old  man  dryly,  and  Dave  red 
dened  angrily. 

"Yes,  and  fust  thing  you  know  he'll  be  over 
hyeh  atter  you"  The  old  man  turned  on  him 
sternly 

"Jack  Hale  knows  that  liquer  was  mine.  He 
knows  I've  got  a  still  over  hyeh  as  well  as  you  do 
—an'  he's  never  axed  a  question  nor  peeped  an 
eye.  I  reckon  he  would  come  if  he  thought  he 

157 


THE  TRAIL  OF  THE  LONESOME  PINE 

oughter — but  I'm  on  this  side  of  the  state-line.  If 
I  was  on  his  side,  mebbe  I'd  stop." 

Young  Dave  stared,  for  things  were  surely 
coming  to  a  pretty  pass  in  Lonesome  Cove. 

"An'  I  reckon,"  the  old  man  went  on,  "hit  'ud 
be  better  grace  in  you  to  stop  sayin'  things  agin' 
him;  fer  if  it  hadn't  been  fer  him,  you'd  be  laid 
out  by  them  Falins  by  this  time." 

It  was  true,  and  Dave,  silenced,  was  forced  into 
another  channel. 

"I  wonder,"  he  said  presently,  "how  them 
Falins  always  know  when  I  go  over  thar." 

"I've  been  studyin'  about  that  myself,"  said 
Devil  Judd.  Inside,  the  old  step-mother  had 
heard  Dave's  query. 

"  I  seed  the  Red  Fox  this  afternoon,"  she  qua 
vered  at  the  door. 

"Whut  was  he  doin'  over  hyeh?"  asked 
Dave. 

"Nothin',"  she  said,  "jus'  a-sneakin'  aroun' 
the  way  he's  al'ays  a-doin'.  Seemed  like  he  was 
mighty  pertickuler  to  find  out  when  you  was  comin' 
back." 

Both  men  started  slightly. 

"We're  all  Tollivers  now  all  right,"  said  the 
Hon.  Samuel  Budd  that  night  while  he  sat  with 
Hale  on  the  porch  overlooking  the  mill-pond — 
and  then  he  groaned  a  little. 

"Them  Falins  have  got  kinsfolks  to  burn  on  the 

158 


THE  TRAIL  OF  THE  LONESOME  PINE 

Virginia  side  and  they'd  fight  me  tooth  and  toe- 
nail  for  this  a  hundred  years  hence!" 

He  puffed  his  pipe,  but  Hale  said  nothing. 

"Yes,  sir,"  he  added  cheerily,  "we're  in  for  a 
hell  of  a  merry  time  now.  The  mountaineer  hates 
as  long  as  he  remembers  and — he  never  forgets." 


159 


XV 

T_JAND  in  hand,  Hale  and  June  followed  the 
footsteps  of  spring  from  the  time  June 
met  him  at  the  school-house  gate  for  their  first 
walk  into  the  woods.  Hale  pointed  to  some  boys 
playing  marbles. 

"That's  the  first  sign,"  he  said,  and  with  quick 
understanding  June  smiled. 

The  birdlike  piping  of  hylas  came  from  a 
marshy  strip  of  woodland  that  ran  through  the 
centre  of  the  town  and  a  toad  was  croaking  at 
the  foot  of  Imboden  Hill. 

"And  they  come  next." 

They  crossed  the  swinging  foot-bridge,  which 
was  a  miracle  to  June,  and  took  the  foot-path 
along  the  clear  stream  of  South  Fork,  under  the 
laurel  which  June  called  "ivy,"  and  the  rhoden- 
dendron  which  was  "laurel"  in  her  speech,  and 
Hale  pointed  out  catkins  greening  on  alders  in  one 
swampy  place  and  willows  just  blushing  into  life 
along  the  banks  of  a  little  creek.  A  few  yards 
aside  from  the  path  he  found,  under  a  patch  of 
snow  and  dead  leaves,  the  pink-and-white  blos 
soms  and  the  waxy  green  leaves  of  the  trailing 
arbutus,  that  fragrant  harbinger  of  the  old  Moth- 

160 


THE  TRAIL  OF  THE  LONESOME  PINE 

er's  awakening,  and  June  breathed  in  from  it  the 
very  breath  of  spring.  Near  by  were  turkey  peas, 
which  she  had  hunted  and  eaten  many  times. 

"  You  can't  put  that  arbutus  in  a  garden,"  said 
Hale,  "it's  as  wild  as  a  hawk." 

Presently  he  had  the  little  girl  listen  to  a  pewee 
twittering  in  a  thorn-bush  and  the  lusty  call  of  a 
robin  from  an  apple-tree.  A  bluebird  flew  over 
head  with  a  merry  chirp — its  wistful  note  of 
autumn  long  since  forgotten.  These  were  the 
first  birds  and  flowers,  he  said,  and  June,  knowing 
them  only  by  sight,  must  know  the  name  of  each 
and  the  reason  for  that  name.  So  that  Hale  found 
himself  walking  the  woods  with  an  interrogation 
point,  and  that  he  might  not  be  confounded  he 
had,  later,  to  dip  up  much  forgotten  lore.  For 
every  walk  became  a  lesson  in  botany  for  June, 
such  a  passion  did  she  betray  at  once  for  flowers, 
and  he  rarely  had  to  tell  her  the  same  thing  twice, 
since  her  memory  was  like  a  vise — for  everything, 
as  he  learned  in  time. 

Her  eyes  were  quicker  than  his,  too,  and  now 
she  pointed  to  a  snowy  blossom  with  a  deeply 
lobed  leaf. 

"Whut's  that?" 

"  Bloodroot,"  said  Hale,  and  he  scratched  the 
stem  and  forth  issued  scarlet  drops.  "The  Indi 
ans  used  to  put  it  on  their  faces  and  tomahawks" 
— she  knew  that  word  and  nodded — "and  I  used 
to  make  red  ink  of  it  when  I  was  a  little  boy." 

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THE  TRAIL  OF  THE  LONESOME  PINE 

"No!"  said  June.  With  the  next  look  she 
found  a  tiny  bunch  of  fuzzy  hepaticas 

"Liver-leaf." 

"Whut's  liver?" 

Hale,  looking  at  her  glowing  face  and  eyes  and 
her  perfect  little  body,  imagined  that  she  would 
never  know  unless  told  that  she  had  one,  and  so 
he  waved  one  hand  vaguely  at  his  chest: 

"It's  an  organ — and  that  herb  is  supposed  to 
be  good  for  it." 

"Organ?    Whut's  that?" 

"Oh,  something  inside  of  you." 

June  made  the  same  gesture  that  Hale  had. 

"Me?" 

"Yes,"  and  then  helplessly,  "but  not  there 
exactly." 

June's  eyes  had  caught  something  else  now 
and  she  ran  for  it: 

"Oh!  Oh!"  It  was  a  bunch  of  delicate  anem 
ones  of  intermediate  shades  between  white  and 
red — yellow,  pink  and  purple-blue. 

"Those  are  anemones." 

"A-nem-o-nes,"  repeated  June. 

"Wind-flowers — because  the  wind  is  supposed 
to  open  them."  And,  almost  unconsciously,  Hale 
lapsed  into  a  quotation: 

"'And  where  a  tear  has  dropped,  a  wind-flower 
blows.'" 

"Whut's  that?"  said  June  quickly. 

"That's  poetry." 

162 


THE  TRAIL  OF  THE  LONESOME  PINE 

"Whut's  po-e-try?"  Hale  threw  up  both 
hands. 

"I  don't  know,  but  I'll  read  you  some — some 
day." 

By  that  time  she  was  gurgling  with  delight  over 
a  bunch  of  spring  beauties  that  came  up,  root, 
stalk  and  all,  when  she  reached  for  them. 

"Well,  ain't  they  purty?"  While  they  lay  in 
her  hand  and  she  looked,  the  rose-veined  petals 
began  to  close,  the  leaves  to  droop  and  the  stem 
got  limp. 

"Ah-h!"  crooned  June.  "I  won't  pull  up  no 
more  o'  them." 

*  These    little    dream-flowers    found    in    the 
spring.'    More  poetry,  June." 

A  little  later  he  heard  her  repeating  that  line  to 
herself.  It  was  an  easy  step  to  poetry  from  flowers, 
and  evidently  June  was  groping  for  it. 

A  few  days  later  the  service-berry  swung  out 
white  stars  on  the  low  hill-sides,  but  Hale  could 
tell  her  nothing  that  she  did  not  know  about  the 
"sarvice-berry."  Soon,  the  dogwood  swept  in 
snowy  gusts  along  the  mountains,  and  from  a 
bank  of  it  one  morning  a  red-bird  flamed  and 
sang:  "What  cheer!  What  cheer!  What  cheer!" 
And  like  its  scarlet  coat  the  red-bud  had  burst 
into  bloom.  June  knew  the  red-bud,  but  she  had 
never  heard  it  called  the  Judas  tree. 

"You  see,  the  red-bud  was  supposed  to  be  poi 
sonous.  It  shakes  in  the  wind  and  says  to  the 


THE  TRAIL  OF  THE  LONESOME  PINE 

bees,  'Come  on,  little  fellows — here's  your  nice 
fresh  honey,  and  when  they  come,  it  betrays  and 
poisons  them." 

"Well,  what  do  you  think  o'  that!"  said  June 
indignantly,  and  Hale  had  to  hedge  a  bit. 

"  Well,  I  don't  know  whether  it  really  does,  but 
that's  what  they  say."  A  little  farther  on  the 
white  stars  of  the  trillium  gleamed  at  them  from 
the  border  of  the  woods  and  near  by  June  stooped 
over  some  lovely  sky-blue  blossoms  with  yellow 
eyes. 

"Forget-me-nots,"  said  Hale.  June  stooped  to 
gather  them  with  a  radiant  face. 

"Oh,"  she  said,  "is  that  what  you  call  'em  ?" 

"They  aren't  the  real  ones — they're  false  for 
get-me-nots." 

"Then  I  don't  want  'em,"  said  June.  But  they 
were  beautiful  and  fragrant  and  she  added  gently: 

"'Tain't  their  fault.  I'm  agoin'  to  call  'em 
jus'  forget-me-nots,  an'  I'm  givin'  'em  to  you," 
she  said — "so  that  you  won't." 

"Thank  you,"  said  Hale  gravely.     "I  won't." 

They  found  larkspur,  too 

"'Blue  as  the  heaven  it  gazes  at,"'  quoted  Hale. 

"Whut's*  gazes'?" 

"Looks."  June  looked  up  at  the  sky  and  down 
at  the  flower. 

"Tain't,"  she  said,  "hit's  bluer." 

When  they  discovered  something  Hale  did  not 
know  he  would  say  that  it  was  one  of  those 


THE  TRAIL  OF  THE  LONESOME  PINE 

**Wan  flowers  without  a  name." 

"My!"  said  June  at  last,  "seems  like  them  wan 
flowers  is  a  mighty  big  fambly." 

"They  are,"  laughed  Hale,  "for  a  bachelor 
like  me." 

"Huh!"  said  June. 

Later,  they  ran  upon  yellow  adder's  tongues  in 
a  hollow,  each  blossom  guarded  by  a  pair  of  ear- 
like  leaves,  Dutchman's  breeches  and  wild  bleed 
ing  hearts — :a  name  that  appealed  greatly  to  the 
fancy  of  the  romantic  little  lady,  and  thus  together 
they  followed  the  footsteps  of  that  spring.  And 
while  she  studied  the  flowers  Hale  was  studying 
the  loveliest  flower  of  them  all — little  June.  About 
ferns,  plants  and  trees  as  well,  he  told  her  all  he 
knew,  and  there  seemed  nothing  in  the  skies,  the 
green  world  of  the  leaves  or  the  under  world  at  her 
feet  to  which  she  was  not  magically  responsive. 
Indeed,  Hale  had  never  seen  a  man,  woman  or 
child  so  eager  to  learn,  and  one  day,  when  she 
had  apparently  reached  the  limit  of  inquiry,  she 
grew  very  thoughtful  and  he  watched  her  in  silence 
a  long  while. 

"What's  the  matter,  June?"  he  asked  finally. 

"I'm  just  wonderin'  why  I'm  always  axnV 
why,"  said  little  June. 

She  was  learning  in  school,  too,  and  she  was 
happier  there  now,  for  there  had  been  no  more 
open  teasing  of  the  new  pupil.  Bob's  champion 
ship  saved  her  from  that,  and,  thereafter,  school 


THE  TRAIL  OF  THE  LONESOME  PINE 

changed  straightway  for  June.  Before  that  day 
she  had  kept  apart  from  her  school-fellows  at  re 
cess-times  as  well  as  in  the  school-room.  Two  or 
three  of  the  girls  had  made  friendly  advances  to 
her,  but  she  had  shyly  repelled  them — why  she 
hardly  knew — and  it  was  her  lonely  custom  at 
recess-times  to  build  a  play-house  at  the  foot  of  a 
great  beech  with  moss,  broken  bits  of  bottles  and 
stones.  Once  she  found  it  torn  to  pieces  and  from 
the  look  on  the  face  of  the  tall  mountain  boy,  Cal 
Heaton,  who  had  grinned  at  her  when  she  went 
up  for  her  first  lesson,  and  who  was  now  Bob's 
arch-enemy,  she  knew  that  he  was  the  guilty  one. 
Again  a  day  or  two  later  it  was  destroyed,  and 
when  she  came  down  from  the  woods  almost  in 
tears,  Bob  happened  to  meet  her  in  the  road  and 
made  her  tell  the  trouble  she  was  in.  Straightway 
he  charged  the  trespasser  with  the  deed  and  was 
lied  to  for  his  pains.  So  after  school  that  day  he 
slipped  up  on  the  hill  with  the  little  girl  and  helped 
her  rebuild  again. 

"Now  I'll  lay  for  him,"  said  Bob,  "and  catch 
him  at  it." 

"All  right,"  said  June,  and  she  looked  both  her 
worry  and  her  gratitude  so  that  Bob  understood 
both;  and  he  answered  both  with  a  nonchalant 
wave  of  one  hand. 

"Never  you  mind — and  don't  you  tell  Mr.  Hale," 
and  June  in  dumb  acquiescence  crossed  heart  and 
body.  But  the  mountain  boy  was  wary,  and  for 

1 66 


THE  TRAIL  OF  THE  LONESOME  PINE 

two  or  three  days  the  play-house  was  undisturbed 
and  so  Bob  himself  laid  a  trap.  He  mounted  nis 
horse  immediately  after  school,  rode  past  the 
mountain  lad,  who  was  on  his  way  home,  crossed 
the  river,  made  a  wide  detour  at  a  gallop  and, 
hitching  his  horse  in  the  woods,  came  to  the  play 
house  from  the  other  side  of  the  hill.  And  half  an 
hour  later,  when  the  pale  little  teacher  came  out 
of  the  school-house,  he  heard  grunts  and  blows 
and  scuffling  up  in  the  woods,  and  when  he  ran 
toward  the  sounds,  the  bodies  of  two  of  his  pupils 
rolled  into  sight  clenched  fiercely,  with  torn  clothes 
and  bleeding  faces — Bob  on  top  with  the  moun 
tain  boy's  thumb  in  his  mouth  and  his  own  fingers 
gripped  about  his  antagonist's  throat.  Neither 
paid  any  attention  to  the  school-master,  who 
pulled  at  Bob's  coat  unavailingly  and  with  horror 
at  his  ferocity.  Bob  turned  his  head,  shook  it  as 
well  as  the  thumb  in  his  mouth  would  let  him,  and 
went  on  gripping  the  throat  under  him  and  pushing 
the  head  that  belonged  to  it  into  the  ground.  The 
mountain  boy's  tongue  showed  and  his  eyes  bulged. 

"'Nough!"  he  yelled.  Bob  rose  then  and  told 
his  story  and  the  school-master  from  New  England 
gave  them  a  short  lecture  on  gentleness  and  Chris 
tian  charity  and  fixed  on  each  the  awful  penalty  of 
"staying  in"  after  school  for  an  hour  every  day 
for  a  week.  Bob  grinned : 

"All  right,  professor — it  was  worth  it,"  he  said, 
but  the  mountain  lad  shuffled  silently  away. 


THE  TRAIL  OF  THE  LONESOME  PINE 

An  hour  later  Hale  saw  the  boy  with  a  swollen 
lip,  one  eye  black  and  the  other  as  merry  as  ever — 
but  after  that  there  was  no  more  trouble  for  June. 
Bob  had  made  his  promise  good  and  gradually 
she  came  into  the  games  with  her  fellows  there 
after,  while  Bob  stood  or  sat  aside,  encouraging 
but  taking  no  part — for  was  he  not  a  member  of 
the  Police  Force  ?  Indeed  he  was  already  known 
far  and  wide  as  the  Infant  of  the  Guard,  and  al 
ways  he  carried  a  whistle  and  usually,  outside  the 
school-house,  a  pistol  bumped  his  hip,  while  a 
Winchester  stood  in  one  corner  of  his  room  and  a 
billy  dangled  by  his  mantel-piece. 

The  games  were  new  to  June,  and  often  Hale 
would  stroll  up  to  the  school-house  to  watch  them 
— Prisoner's  Base,  Skipping  the  Rope,  Antny 
Over,  Cracking  the  Whip  and  Lifting  the  Gate; 
and  it  pleased  him  to  see  how  lithe  and  active  his 
little  protege  was  and  more  than  a  match  in 
strength  even  for  the  boys  who  were  near  her  size. 
June  had  to  take  the  penalty  of  her  greenness,  too, 
when  she  was  "introduced  to  the  King  and 
Queen"  and  bumped  the  ground  between  the 
make-believe  sovereigns,  or  got  a  cup  of  water  in 
her  face  when  she  was  trying  to  see  stars  through 
a  pipe.  And  the  boys  pinned  her  dress  to  the 
bench  through  a  crack  and  once  she  walked  into 
school  with  a  placard  on  her  back  which  read: 

"  June-Bug."  But  she  was  so  good-natured  that 
she  fast  became  a  favourite.  Indeed  it  was  no- 

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THE  TRAIL  OF  THE  LONESOME  PINE 

ticeable  to  Hale  as  well  as  Bob  that  Cal  Heaton, 
the  mountain  boy,  seemed  always  to  get  next  to 
June  in  the  Tugs  of  War,  and  one  morning  June 
found  an  apple  on  her  desk.  She  swept  the  room 
with  a  glance  and  met  Cal's  guilty  flush,  and 
though  she  ate  the  apple,  she  gave  him  no  thanks 
— in  word,  look  or  manner.  It  was  curious  to 
Hale,  moreover,  to  observe  how  June's  instinct 
deftly  led  her  to  avoid  the  mistakes  in  dress  that 
characterized  the  gropings  of  other  girls  who, 
like  her,  were  in  a  stage  of  transition.  They  wore 
gaudy  combs  and  green  skirts  with  red  waists, 
their  clothes  bunched  at  the  hips,  and  to  their 
shoes  and  hands  they  paid  no  attention  at  all. 
None  of  these  things  for  June — and  Hale  did  not 
know  that  the  little  girl  had  leaped  her  fellows 
with  one  bound,  had  taken  Miss  Anne  Saunders 
as  her  model  and  was  climbing  upon  the  pedestal 
where  that  lady  justly  stood.  The  two  had  not 
become  friends  as  Hale  hoped.  June  was  always 
silent  and  reserved  when  the  older  girl  was  around, 
but  there  was  never  a  move  of  the  latter's  hand 
or  foot  or  lip  or  eye  that  the  new  pupil  failed  to 
see.  Miss  Anne  rallied  Hale  no  little  about  her, 
but  he  laughed  good-naturedly,  and  asked  why 
she  could  not  make  friends  with  June. 

"She's  jealous,"  said  Miss  Saunders,  and  Hale 
ridiculed  the  idea,  for  not  one  sign  since  she  came 
to  the  Gap  had  she  shown  him.  It  was  the  jeal 
ousy  of  a  child  she  had  once  betrayed  and  that 

169 


THE  TRAIL  OF  THE  LONESOME  PINE 

she  had  outgrown,  he  thought;  but  he  never  knew 
how  June  stood  behind  the  curtains  of  her  win 
dow,  with  a  hungry  suffering  in  her  face  and  eyes, 
to  watch  Hale  and  Miss  Anne  ride  by  and  he  never 
guessed  that  concealment  was  but  a  sign  of  the 
dawn  of  womanhood  that  was  breaking  within 
her.  And  she  gave  no  hint  of  that  breaking  dawn 
until  one  day  early  in  May,  when  she  heard  a 
woodthrush  for  the  first  time  with  Hale :  for  it  was 
the  bird  she  loved  best,  and  always  its  silver 
fluting  would  stop  her  in  her  tracks  and  send 
her  into  dreamland.  Hale  had  just  broken  a 
crimson  flower  from  its  stem  and  held  it  out  to 
her. 

"Here's  another  of  the  'wan  ones,'  June.  Do 
you  know  what  that  is  ?" 

"Hit's" — she  paused  for  correction  with  her 
lips  drawn  severely  in  for  precision — "it's  a 
mountain  poppy.  Pap  says  it  kills  goslings" — 
her  eyes  danced,  for  she  was  in  a  merry  mood  that 
day,  and  she  put  both  hands  behind  her — "if  you 
air  any  kin  to  a  goose,  you  better  drap  it." 

"That's  a  good  one,"  laughed  Hale,  "but  it's 
so  lovely  I'll  take  the  risk.  I  won't  drop  it." 

"Drop  it,"  caught  June  with  a  quick  upward 
look,  and  then  to  fix  the  word  in  her  memory  she 
repeated — "drop  it,  drop  it,  drop  it!" 

"Got  it  now,  June  ?" 

"Uh-huh." 

It  was  then  that  a  woodthrush  voiced  the 
170 


THE  TRAIL  OF  THE  LONESOME  PINE 

crowning  joy  of  spring,  and  with  slowly  filling  eyes 
she  asked  its  name. 

"That  bird,"  she  said  slowly  and  with  a  break 
ing  voice,  "sung  just  that-a-way  the  mornin'  my 
sister  died." 

She  turned  to  him  with  a  wondering  smile. 

"Somehow  it  don't  make  me  so  miserable,  like 
it  useter."  Her  smile  passed  while  she  looked, 
she  caught  both  hands  to  her  heaving  breast  and 
a  wild  intensity  burned  suddenly  in  her  eyes. 

"Why,  June!" 

"Tain't  nothin',"  she  choked  out,  and  she 
turned  hurriedly  ahead  of  him  down  the  path. 
Startled,  Hale  had  dropped  the  crimson  flower  to 
his  feet.  He  saw  it  and  he  let  it  lie. 

Meanwhile,  rumours  were  brought  in  that  the 
Falins  were  coming  over  from  Kentucky  to  wipe 
out  the  Guard,  and  so  straight  were  they  some 
times  that  the  Guard  was  kept  perpetually  on 
watch.  Once  while  the  members  were  at  target 
practice,  the  shout  arose: 

"The  Kentuckians  are  coming!  The  Ken- 
tuckians  are  coming!"  And,  at  double  quick,  the 
Guard  rushed  back  to  find  it  a  false  alarm  and  to 
see  men  laughing  at  them  in  the  street.  The  truth 
was  that,  while  the  Falins  had  a  general  hostility 
against  the  Guard,  their  particular  enmity  was 
concentrated  on  John  Hale,  as  he  discovered  when 
June  was  to  take  her  first  trip  home  one  Friday 

171 


THE  TRAIL  OF  THE  LONESOME  PINE 

afternoon.  Hale  meant  to  carry  her  over,  but  the 
morning  they  were  to  leave,  old  Judd  Tolliver 
came  to  the  Gap  himself.  He  did  not  want  June 
to  come  home  at  that  time,  and  he  didn't  think  it 
was  safe  over  there  for  Hale  just  then.  Some  of 
the  Falins  had  been  seen  hanging  around  Lone 
some  Cove  for  the  purpose,  Judd  believed,  of  get 
ting  a  shot  at  the  man  who  had  kept  young  Dave 
from  falling  into  their  hands,  and  Hale  saw  that 
by  that  act  he  had,  as  Budd  said,  arrayed  himself 
with  the  Tollivers  in  the  feud.  In  other  words,  he 
was  a  Tolliver  himself  now,  and  as  such  the  Falins 
meant  to  treat  him.  Hale  rebelled  against  the  re 
striction,  for  he  had  started  some  work  in  Lone 
some  Cove  and  was  preparing  a  surprise  over  there 
for  June,  but  old  Judd  said: 

"Just  wait  a  while,"  and  he  said  it  so  seriously 
that  Hale  for  a  while  took  his  advice. 

So  June  stayed  on  at  the  Gap — with  little  dis 
appointment,  apparently,  that  she  could  not  visit 
home.  And  as  spring  passed  and  the  summer 
came  on,  the  little  girl  budded  and  opened  like  a 
rose.  To  the  pretty  school-teacher  she  was  a 
source  of  endless  interest  and  wonder,  for  while 
the  little  girl  was  reticent  and  aloof,  Miss  Saunders 
felt  herself  watched  and  studied  in  and  out  of 
school,  and  Hale  often  had  to  smile  at  June's  un 
conscious  imitation  of  her  teacher  in  speech,  man 
ners  and  dress.  And  all  the  time  her  hero-worship 
of  Hale  went  on,  fed  by  the  talk  of  the  boarding- 

172 


THE  TRAIL  OF  THE  LONESOME  PINE 

house,  her  fellow  pupils  and  of  the  town  at  large — 
and  it  fairly  thrilled  her  to  know  that  to  the  Falins 
he  was  now  a  Tolliver  himself. 

Sometimes  Hale  would  get  her  a  saddle,  and 
then  June  would  usurp  Miss  Anne's  place  on  a 
horseback-ride  up  through  the  gap  to  see  the 
first  blooms  of  the  purple  rhododendron  on  Bee 
Rock,  or  up  to  Morris's  farm  on  Powell's  moun 
tain,  from  which,  with  a  glass,  they  could  see  the 
Lonesome  Pine.  And  all  the  time  she  worked  at 
her  studies  tirelessly — and  when  she  was  done 
with  her  lessons,  she  read  the  fairy  books  that  Hale 
got  for  her — read  them  until  "Paul  and  Virginia" 
fell  into  her  hands,  and  then  there  were  no  more 
fairy  stories  for  little  June.  Often,  late  at  night, 
Hale,  from  the  porch  of  his  cottage,  could  see  the 
light  of  her  lamp  sending  its  beam  across  the  dark 
water  of  the  mill-pond,  and  finally  he  got  worried 
by  the  paleness  of  her  face  and  sent  her  to  the  doc 
tor.  She  went  unwillingly,  and  when  she  came 
back  she  reported  placidly  that  "organatically  she 
was  all  right,  the  doctor  said,"  but  Hale  was  glad 
that  vacation  would  soon  come.  At  the  begin 
ning  of  the  last  week  of  school  he  brought  a  little 
present  for  her  from  New  York — a  slender  neck 
lace  of  gold  with  a  little  reddish  stone-pendant 
that  was  the  shape  of  a  cross.  Hale  pulled  the 
trinket  from  his  pocket  as  they  were  walking  down 
the  river-bank  at  sunset  and  the  little  girl  quivered 
like  an  aspen-leaf  in  a  sudden  puff  of  wind. 

173 


THE  TRAIL  OF  THE  LONESOME  PINE 

"Hit's  a  fairy-stone,"  she  cried  excitedly. 

"Why,  where  on  earth  did  you " 

"Why,  sister  Sally  told  me  about  'em.  She  said 
folks  found  'em  somewhere  over  here  in  Virginny, 
an'  all  her  life  she  was  a-wishin'  fer  one  an'  she 
never  could  git  it" — her  eyes  filled — "seems  like 
ever'thing  she  wanted  is  a-comin'  to  me." 

"Do  you  know  the  story  of  it,  too?"  asked 
Hale. 

June  shook  her  head.  "Sister  Sally  said  it  was 
a  luck-piece.  Nothin'  could  happen  to  ye  when 
ye  was  carryin'  it,  but  it  was  awful  bad  luck  if  you 
lost  it."  Hale  put  it  around  her  neck  and  fastened 
the  clasp  and  June  kept  hold  of  the  little  cross 
with  one  hand. 

"Well,  you  mustn't  lose  it,"  he  said. 

"No — no — no,"  she  repeated  breathlessly,  and 
Hale  told  her  the  pretty  story  of  the  stone  as  they 
strolled  back  to  supper.  The  little  crosses  were 
to  be  found  only  in  a  certain  valley  in  Virginia,  so 
perfect  in  shape  that  they  seemed  to  have  been 
chiselled  by  hand,  and  they  were  a  great  mystery 
to  the  men  who  knew  all  about  rocks — the  geol 
ogists. 

"The  ge-ol-o-gists,"  repeated  June. 

These  men  said  there  was  no  crystallization — 
nothing  like  them,  amended  Hale — elsewhere  in 
the  world,  and  that  just  as  crosses  were  of  different 
shapes — Roman,  Maltese  and  St.  Andrew's — so, 
too,  these  crosses  were  found  in  all  these  different 

174 


THE  TRAIL  OF  THE  LONESOME  PINE 

shapes.  And  the  myth — the  story — was  that  this 
little  valley  was  once  inhabited  by  fairies — June's 
eyes  lighted,  for  it  was  a  fairy  story  after  all — and 
that  when  a  strange  messenger  brought  them  the 
news  of  Christ's  crucifixion,  they  wept,  and  their 
tears,  as  they  fell  to  the  ground,  were  turned  into 
tiny  crosses  of  stone.  Even  the  Indians  had  some 
queer  feeling  about  them,  and  for  a  long,  long 
time  people  who  found  them  had  used  them  as 
charms  to  bring  good  luck  and  ward  off  harm. 

"And  that's  for  you,"  he  said,  "because  you've 
been  such  a  good  little  girl  and  have  studied  so 
hard.  School's  most  over  now  and  I  reckon  you'll 
be  right  glad  to  get  home  again." 

June  made  no  answer,  but  at  the  gate  she 
looked  suddenly  up  at  him. 

"Have  you  got  one,  too?"  she  asked,  and  she 
seemed  much  disturbed  when  Hale  shook  his 
head. 

"Well,  /'//  git — get — you  one — some  day." 

"All  right,"  laughed  Hale. 

There  was  again  something  strange  in  her 
manner  as  she  turned  suddenly  from  him,  and 
what  it  meant  he  was  soon  to  learn.  It  was  the 
last  week  of  school  and  Hale  had  just  come  down 
from  the  woods  behind  the  school-house  at  "little 
recess-time"  in  the  afternoon.  The  children 
were  playing  games  outside  the  gate,  and  Bob  and 
Miss  Anne  and  the  little  Professor  were  leaning 
on  the  fence  watching  them.  The  little  man 

175 


THE  TRAIL  OF  THE  LONESOME  PINE 

raised  his  hand  to  halt  Hale  on  the  plank  side 
walk. 

"I've  been  wanting  to  see  you,"  he  said  in  his 
dreamy,  abstracted  way.  "You  prophesied,  you 
know,  that  I  should  be  proud  of  your  little  pro 
tege  some  day,  and  I  am  indeed.  She  is  the  most 
remarkable  pupil  I've  yet  seen  here,  and  I  have 
about  come  to  the  conclusion  that  there  is  no 
quicker  native  intelligence  in  our  country  than 
you  shall  find  in  the  children  of  these  mountain 
eers  and " 

Miss  Anne  was  gazing  at  the  children  with  an 
expression  that  turned  Hale's  eyes  that  way,  and 
the  Professor  checked  his  harangue.  Something 
had  happened.  They  had  been  playing  "Ring 
Around  the  Rosy"  and  June  had  been  caught. 
She  stood  scarlet  and  tense  and  the  cry  was:  „ 

"Who's  your  beau — who's  your  beau  ?" 

And  still  she  stood  with  tight  lips — flushing. 

"You  got  to  tell — you  got  to  tell!" 

The  mountain  boy,  Cal  Heaton,  was  grinning 
with  fatuous  consciousness,  and  even  Bob  put  his 
hands  in  his  pockets  and  took  on  an  uneasy  smile. 

"Who's  your  beau  ?"  came  the  chorus  again. 

The  lips  opened  almost  in  a  whisper,  but  all 
could  hear: 

"Jack!" 

"Jack  who?"  But  June  looked  around  and 
saw  the  four  at  the  gate.  Almost  staggering,  she 
broke  from  the  crowd  and,  with  one  forearm  across 

176 


THE  TRAIL  OF  THE  LONESOME  PINE 

her  scarlet  face,  rushed  past  them  into  the  school- 
house.  Miss  Anne  looked  at  Hale's  amazed  face 
and  she  did  not  smile.  Bob  turned  respectfully 
away,  ignoring  it  all,  and  the  little  Professor, 
whose  life-purpose  was  psychology,  murmured  in 
his  ignorance: 

"Very  remarkable — very  remarkable!" 

Through  that  afternoon  June  kept  her  hot  face 
close  to  her  books.  Bob  never  so  much  as  glanced 
her  way — little  gentleman  that  he  was — but  the 
one  time  she  lifted  her  eyes,  she  met  the  mountain 
lad's  bent  in  a  stupor-like  gaze  upon  her.  In 
spite  of  her  apparent  studiousness,  however,  she 
missed  her  lesson  and,  automatically,  the  little 
Professor  told  her  to  stay  in  after  school  and  recite 
to  Miss  Saunders.  And  so  June  and  Miss  Anne 
sat  in  the  school-room  alone — the  teacher  reading 
a  book,  and  the  pupil — her  tears  unshed — with  her 
sullen  face  bent  over  her  lesson.  In  a  few  mo 
ments  the  door  opened  and  the  little  Professor 
thrust  in  his  head.  The  girl  had  looked  so  hurt 
and  tired  when  he  spoke  to  her  that  some  strange 
sympathy  moved  him,  mystified  though  he  was, 
to  say  gently  now  and  with  a  smile  that  was  rare 
with  him: 

"You  might  excuse  June,  I  think,  Miss  Saun 
ders,  and  let  her  recite  some  time  to-morrow," 
and  gently  he  closed  the  door.  Miss  Anne  rose: 

"Very  well,  June,"  she  said  quietly. 

June  rose,  too,  gathering  up  her  books,  and  as 
177 


THE  TRAIL  OF  THE  LONESOME  PINE 

she  passed  the  teacher's  platform  she  stopped  and 
looked  her  full  in  the  face.  She  said  not  a  word, 
and  the  tragedy  between  the  woman  and  the  girl 
was  played  in  silence,  for  the  woman  knew  from 
the  searching  gaze  of  the  girl  and  the  black  defi 
ance  in  her  eyes,  as  she  stalked  out  of  the  room, 
that  her  own  flush  had  betrayed  her  secret  as 
plainly  as  the  girl's  words  had  told  hers. 

Through  his  office  window,  a  few  minutes  later, 
Hale  saw  June  pass  swiftly  into  the  house.  In  a 
few  minutes  she  came  swiftly  out  again  and  went 
back  swiftly  toward  the  school-house.  He  was  so 
worried  by  the  tense  look  in  her  face  that  he  could 
work  no  more,  and  in  a  few  minutes  he  threw  his 
papers  down  and  followed  her.  When  he  turned 
the  corner,  Bob  was  coming  down  the  street  with 
his  cap  on  the  back  of  his  head  and  swinging  his 
books  by  a  strap,  and  the  boy  looked  a  little  con 
scious  when  he  saw  Hale  coming. 

"Have  you  seen  June  ?"  Hale  asked. 

"No,  sir,"  said  Bob,  immensely  relieved. 

"Did  she  come  up  this  way  ?" 

"  I  don't  know,  but — "  Bob  turned  and  pointed 
to  the  green  dome  of  a  big  beech. 

"I  think  you'll  find  her  at  the  foot  of  that  tree," 
he  said.  "That's  where  her  play-house  is  and 
that's  where  she  goes  when  she's — that's  where 
she  usually  goes." 

"  Oh,  yes,"  said  Hale—"  her  play-house.  Thank 
you." 

178 


THE  TRAIL  OF  THE  LONESOME  PINE 

"Not  at  all,  sir." 

Hale  went  on,  turned  from  the  path  and  climbed 
noiselessly.  When  he  caught  sight  of  the  beech 
he  stopped  still.  June  stood  against  it  like  a  wood- 
nymph  just  emerged  from  its  sun-dappled  trunk 
— stood  stretched  to  her  full  height,  her  hands  be 
hind  her,  her  hair  tossed,  her  throat  tense  under 
the  dangling  little  cross,  her  face  uplifted.  At  her 
feet,  the  play-house  was  scattered  to  pieces.  She 
seemed  listening  to  the  love-calls  of  a  woodthrush 
that  came  faintly  through  the  still  woods,  and  then 
he  saw  that  she  heard  nothing,  saw  nothing — that 
she  was  in  a  dream  as  deep  as  sleep.  Hale's 
heart  throbbed  as  he  looked. 

"June!"  he  called  softly.  She  did  not  hear 
him,  and  when  he  called  again,  she  turned  her 
face — unstartled — and  moving  her  posture  not  at 
all.  Hale  pointed  to  the  scattered  play-house. 

"I  done  it!"  she  said  fiercely — "I  done  it  my 
self."  Her  eyes  burned  steadily  into  his,  even 
while  she  lifted  her  hands  to  her  hair  as  though 
she  were  only  vaguely  conscious  that  it  was  all 
undone. 

"Tou  heerd  me?"  she  cried,  and  before  he 
could  answer — "She  heerd  me,"  and  again,  not 
waiting  for  a  word  from  him,  she  cried  still  more 
fiercely : 

"I  don't  keer!  I  don't  keer  who  knows." 

Her  hands  were  trembling,  she  was  biting  her 
quivering  lip  to  keep  back  the  starting  tears, 

179 


THE  TRAIL  OF  THE  LONESOME  PINE 

and  Hale  rushed  toward  her  and  took  her  in  his 
arms. 

"June!  June!"  he  said  brokenly.  "You 
mustn't,  little  girl.  I'm  proud — proud — why 
little  sweetheart — '  She  was  clinging  to  him  and 
looking  up  into  his  eyes  and  he  bent  his  head 
slowly.  Their  lips  met  and  the  man  was  startled. 
He  knew  now  it  was  no  child  that  answered  him. 

Hale  walked  long  that  night  in  the  moonlit 
woods  up  and  around  Imboden  Hill,  along  a 
shadow-haunted  path,  between  silvery  beech- 
trunks,  past  the  big  hole  in  the  earth  from  which 
dead  trees  tossed  out  their  crooked  arms  as  if  in 
torment,  and  to  the  top  of  the  ridge  under  which 
the  valley  slept  and  above  which  the  dark  bulk  of 
Powell's  Mountain  rose.  It  was  absurd,  but  he 
found  himself  strangely  stirred.  She  was  a  child, 
he  kept  repeating  to  himself,  in  spite  of  the  fact 
that  he  knew  she  was  no  child  among  her  own 
people,  and  that  mountain  girls  were  even  wives 
who  were  younger  still.  Still,  she  did  not  know 
what  she  felt — how  could  she  ? — and  she  would 
get  over  it,  and  then  came  the  sharp  stab  of  a 
doubt — would  he  want  her  to  get  over  it  ?  Frankly 
and  with  wonder  he  confessed  to  himself  that  he 
did  not  know — he  did  not  know.  But  again,  why 
bother  ?  He  had  meant  to  educate  her,  anyhow. 
That  was  the  first  step — no  matter  what  happened. 
June  must  go  out  into  the  world  to  school.  He 

1 80 


THE  TRAIL  OF  THE  LONESOME  PINE 

would  have  plenty  of  money.  Her  father  would 
not  object,  and  June  need  never  know.  He  could 
include  for  her  an  interest  in  her  own  father's  coal 
lands  that  he  meant  to  buy,  and  she  could  think 
that  it  was  her  own  money  that  she  was  using. 
So,  with  a  sudden  rush  of  gladness  from  his  brain 
to  his  heart,  he  recklessly  yoked  himself,  then  and 
there,  under  all  responsibility  for  that  young  life 
and  the  eager,  sensitive  soul  that  already  lighted 
it  so  radiantly. 

And  June  ?  Her  nature  had  opened  precisely 
as  had  bud  and  flower  that  spring.  The  Mother 
of  Magicians  had  touched  her  as  impartially  as 
she  had  touched  them  with  fairy  wand,  and  as  un 
consciously  the  little  girl  had  answered  as  a  young 
dove  to  any  cooing  mate.  With  this  Hale  did  not 
reckon,  and  this  June  could  not  know.  For  a 
while,  that  night,  she  lay  in  a  delicious  tremor, 
listening  to  the  bird-like  chorus  of  the  little  frogs 
in  the  marsh,  the  booming  of  the  big  ones  in  the 
mill-pond,  the  water  pouring  over  the  dam  with 
the  sound  of  a  low  wind,  and,  as  had  all  the  sleep 
ing  things  of  the  earth  about  her,  she,  too,  sank  to 
happy  sleep, 


181 


XVI 

/TVHE  in-sweep  of  the  outside  world  was 
broadening  its  current  now.  The  im 
provement  company  had  been  formed  to  encourage 
the  growth  of  the  town.  A  safe  was  put  in  the 
back  part  of  a  furniture  store  behind  a  wooden 
partition  and  a  bank  was  started.  Up  through 
the  Gap  and  toward  Kentucky,  more  entries  were 
driven  into  the  coal,  and  on  the  Virginia  side  were 
signs  of  stripping  for  iron  ore.  A  furnace  was 
coming  in  just  as  soon  as  the  railroad  could  bring 
it  in,  and  the  railroad  was  pushing  ahead  with 
genuine  vigor.  Speculators  were  trooping  in 
and  the  town  had  been  divided  off  into  lots — a 
few  of  which  had  already  changed  hands.  One 
agent  had  brought  in  a  big  steel  safe  and  a  tent 
and  was  buying  coal  lands  right  and  left.  More 
young  men  drifted  in  from  all  points  of  the  com 
pass.  A  tent-hotel  was  put  at  the  foot  of  Imboden 
Hill,  and  of  nights  there  were  under  it  much  poker 
and  song.  The  lilt  of  a  definite  optimism  was  in 
every  man's  step  and  the  light  of  hope  was  in 
every  man's  eye. 

And  the  Guard  went  to  its  work  in  earnest. 
Every  man  now  had  his  Winchester,  his  revolver, 

182 


THE  TRAIL  OF  THE  LONESOME  PINE 

his  billy  and  his  whistle.  Drilling  and  target- 
shooting  became  a  daily  practice.  Bob,  who  had 
been  a  year  in  a  military  school,  was  drill-master 
for  the  recruits,  and  very  gravely  he  performed  his 
duties  and  put  them  through  the  skirmishers' 
drill — advancing  in  rushes,  throwing  themselves 
in  the  new  grass,  and  very  gravely  he  commended 
one  enthusiast — none  other  than  the  Hon.  Samuel 
Budd — who,  rather  than  lose  his  position  in  line, 
threw  himself  into  a  pool  of  water:  all  to  the  sur 
prise,  scorn  and  anger  of  the  mountain  onlookers, 
who  dwelled  about  the  town.  Many  were  the 
comments  the  members  of  the  Guard  heard  from 
them,  even  while  they  were  at  drill. 

"  I'd  like  to  see  one  o'  them  fellers  hit  me  with 
one  of  them  locust  posts." 

"Huh!  I  could  take  two  good  men  an'  run  the 
whole  batch  out  o'  the  county." 

"Look  at  them  dudes  and  furriners.  They 
come  into  our  country  and  air  tryin'  to  larn  us 
how  to  run  it." 

"Our  boys  air  only  tryin'  to  have  their  little 
fun.  They  don't  mean  nothin',  but  someday  some 
fool  young  guard'll  hurt  somebody  and  then  thar'll 
be  hell  to  pay." 

Hale  could  not  help  feeling  considerable  sym 
pathy  for  their  point  of  view — particularly  when 
he  saw  the  mountaineers  watching  the  Guard  at 
target-practice — each  volunteer  policeman  with 
his  back  to  the  target,  and  at  the  word  of  com- 

183 


THE  TRAIL  OF  THE  LONESOME  PINE 

mand  wheeling  and  firing  six  shots  in  rapid  suc 
cession — and  he  did  not  wonder  at  their  snorts  of 
scorn  at  such  bad  shooting  and  their  open  anger 
that  the  Guard  was  practising  for  them.  But 
sometimes  he  got  an  unexpected  recruit.  One 
bully,  who  had  been  conspicuous  in  the  brickyard 
trouble,  after  watching  a  drill  went  up  to  him  with 
a  grin: 

"Hell,"  he  said  cheerily,  "I  believe  you  fellers 
air  goin'  to  have  more  fun  than  we  air,  an'  danged 
if  I  don't  jine  you,  if  you'll  let  me." 

"Sure,"  said  Hale.  And  others,  who  might 
have  been  bad  men,  became  members  and,  thus 
getting  a  vent  for  their  energies,  were  as  enthusi 
astic  for  the  law  as  they  might  have  been  against 
it. 

Of  course,  the  antagonistic  element  in  the 
town  lost  no  opportunity  to  plague  and  harass  the 
Guard,  and  after  the  destruction  of  the  "blind 
tigers,"  mischief  was  naturally  concentrated  in  the 
high-license  saloons — particularly  in  the  one  run 
by  Jack  Woods,  whose  local  power  for  evil  and 
cackling  laugh  seemed  to  mean  nothing  else  than 
close  personal  communion  with  old  Nick  himself. 
Passing  the  door  of  his  saloon  one  day,  Bob  saw 
one  of  Jack's  customers  trying  to  play  pool  with 
a  Winchester  in  one  hand  and  an  open  knife  be 
tween  his  teeth,  and  the  boy  stepped  in  and 
halted.  The  man  had  no  weapon  concealed  and 
was  making  no  disturbance,  and  Bob  did  not 

184 


THE  TRAIL  OF  THE  LONESOME  PINE 

know  whether  or  not  he  had  the  legal  right  to 
arrest  him,  so  he  turned,  and,  while  he  was  stand 
ing  in  the  door,  Jack  winked  at  his  customer,  who, 
with  a  grin,  put  the  back  of  his  knife-blade  be 
tween  Bob's  shoulders  and,  pushing,  closed  it. 
The  boy  looked  over  his  shoulder  without  moving 
a  muscle,  but  the  Hon.  Samuel  Budd,  who  came 
in  at  that  moment,  pinioned  the  fellow's  arms  from 
behind  and  Bob  took  his  weapon  away. 

"Hell,"  said  the  mountaineer,  "I  didn't  aim  to 
hurt  the  little  feller.  I  jes'  wanted  to  see  if  I 
could  skeer  him." 

"Well,  brother,  'tis  scarce  a  merry  jest,"  quoth 
the  Hon.  Sam,  and  he  looked  sharply  at  Jack 
through  his  big  spectacles  as  the  two  led  the  man 
off  to  the  calaboose:  for  he  suspected  that  the 
saloon-keeper  was  at  the  bottom  of  the  trick. 
Jack's  time  came  only  the  next  day.  He  had  re 
garded  it  as  the  limit  of  indignity  when  an  ordi 
nance  was  up  that  nobody  should  blow  a  whistle 
except  a  member  of  the  Guard,  and  it  was  great 
fun  for  him  to  have  some  drunken  customer  blow 
a  whistle  and  then  stand  in  his  door  and  laugh  at 
the  policemen  running  in  from  all  directions. 
That  day  Jack  tried  the  whistle  himself  and  Hale 
ran  down. 

"Who  did  that?"  he  asked.  Jack  felt  bold 
that  morning. 

"Iblowedit." 

Hale  thought  for  a  moment.     The  ordinance 

185 


THE  TRAIL  OF  THE  LONESOME  PINE 

against  blowing  a  whistle  had  not  yet  been  passed, 
but  he  made  up  his  mind  that,  under  the  circum 
stances,  Jack's  blowing  was  a  breach  of  the  peace, 
since  the  Guard  had  adopted  that  signal.  So  he 
said: 

"You  mustn't  do  that  again." 

Jack  had  doubtless  been  going  through  pre 
cisely  the  same  mental  process,  and,  on  the  nice 
legal  point  involved,  he  seemed  to  differ. 

"I'll  blow  it  when  I  damn  please,"  he  said. 

"  Blow  it  again  and  I'll  arrest  you,"  said  Hale. 

Jack  blew.  He  had  his  right  shoulder  against 
the  corner  of  his  door  at  the  time,  and,  when  he 
raised  the  whistle  to  his  lips,  Hale  drew  and  cov 
ered  him  before  he  could  make  another  move. 
Woods  backed  slowly  into  his  saloon  to  get  behind 
his  counter.  Hale  saw  his  purpose,  and  he  closed 
in,  taking  great  risk,  as  he  always  did,  to  avoid 
bloodshed,  and  there  was  a  struggle.  Jack  man 
aged  to  get  his  pistol  out;  but  Hale  caught  him  by 
the  wrist  and  held  the  weapon  away  so  that  it  was 
harmless  as  far  as  he  was  concerned;  but  a  crowd 
was  gathering  at  the  door  toward  which  the 
saloon-keeper's  pistol  was  pointed,  and  he  feared 
that  somebody  out  there  might  be  shot;  so  he 
called  out: 

"Drop  that  pistol!" 

The  order  was  not  obeyed,  and  Hale  raised  his 
right  hand  high  above  Jack's  head  and  dropped 
the  butt  of  his  weapon  on  Jack's  skull — hard. 

1 86 


THE  TRAIL  OF  THE  LONESOME  PINE 

Jack's  head  dropped  back  between  his  shoulders, 
his  eyes  closed  and  his  pistol  clicked  on  the  floor. 

Hale  knew  how  serious  a  thing  a  blow  was  in 
that  part  of  the  world,  and  what  excitement  it 
would  create,  and  he  was  uneasy  at  Jack's  trial, 
for  fear  that  the  saloon-keeper's  friends  would  take 
the  matter  up;  but  they  didn't,  and,  to  the  sur 
prise  of  everybody,  Jack  quietly  paid  his  fine,  and 
thereafter  the  Guard  had  little  active  trouble  from 
the  town  itself,  for  it  was  quite  plain  there,  at 
least,  that  the  Guard  meant  business. 

Across  Black  Mountain  old  Dave  Tolliver  and 
old  Buck  Falin  had  got  well  of  their  wounds  by 
this  time,  and  though  each  swore  to  have  ven 
geance  against  the  other  as  soon  as  he  was  able  to 
handle  a  Winchester,  both  factions  seemed  wait 
ing  for  that  time  to  come.  Moreover,  the  Falins, 
because  of  a  rumour  that  Bad  Rufe  Tolliver  might 
come  back,  and  because  of  Devil  Judd's  anger  at 
their  attempt  to  capture  young  Dave,  grew  wary 
and  rather  pacificatory:  and  so,  beyond  a  little 
quarrelling,  a  little  threatening  and  the  exchange 
of  a  harmless  shot  or  two,  sometimes  in  banter, 
sometimes  in  earnest,  nothing  had  been  done. 
Sternly,  however,  though  the  Falins  did  not  know 
the  fact,  Devil  Judd  continued  to  hold  aloof  in 
spite  of  the  pleadings  of  young  Dave,  and  so  con 
fident  was  the  old  man  in  the  balance  of  power 
that  lay  with  him  that  he  sent  June  word  that  he 
was  coming  to  take  her  home.  And,  in  truth,  with 


THE  TRAIL  OF  THE  LONESOME  PINE 

Hale  going  away  again  on  a  business  trip  and 
Bob,  too,  gone  back  home  to  the  Bluegrass,  and 
school  closed,  the  little  girl  was  glad  to  go,  and  she 
waited  for  her  father's  coming  eagerly.  Miss 
Anne  was  still  there,  to  be  sure,  and  if  she,  too, 
had  gone,  June  would  have  been  more  content. 
The  quiet  smile  of  that  astute  young  woman  had 
told  Hale  plainly,  and  somewhat  to  his  embarrass 
ment,  that  she  knew  something  had  happened 
between  the  two,  but  that  smile  she  never  gave  to 
June.  Indeed,  she  never  encountered  aught  else 
than  the  same  silent  searching  gaze  from  the 
strangely  mature  little  creature's  eyes,  and  when 
those  eyes  met  the  teacher's,  always  June's  hand 
would  wander  unconsciously  to  the  little  cross  at 
her  throat  as  though  to  invoke  its  aid  against  any 
thing  that  could  come  between  her  and  its  giver. 

The  purple  rhododendrons  on  Bee  Rock  had 
come  and  gone  and  the  pink-flecked  laurels  were 
in  bloom  when  June  fared  forth  one  sunny  morn 
ing  of  her  own  birth-month  behind  old  Judd 
Tolliver — home.  Back  up  through  the  wild  Gap 
they  rode  in  silence,  past  Bee  Rock,  out  of  the 
chasm  and  up  the  little  valley  toward  the  Trail 
of  the  Lonesome  Pine,  into  which  the  father's  old 
sorrel  nag,  with  a  switch  of  her  sunburnt  tail, 
turned  leftward.  June  leaned  forward  a  little, 
and  there  was  the  crest  of  the  big  tree  motionless 
in  the  blue  high  above,  and  sheltered  by  one  big 
white  cloud.  It  was  the  first  time  she  had  seen  the 

1 88 


THE  TRAIL  OF  THE  LONESOME  PINE 

pine  since  she  had  first  left  it,  and  little  tremblings 
went  through  her  from  her  bare  feet  to  her  bon 
neted  head.  Thus  was  she  unclad,  for  Hale  had 
told  her  that,  to  avoid  criticism,  she  must  go  home 
clothed  just  as  she  was  when  she  left  Lonesome 
Cove.  She  did  not  quite  understand  that,  and  she 
carried  her  new  clothes  in  a  bundle  in  her  lap,  but 
she  took  Kale's  word  unquestioned.  So  she  wore 
her  crimson  homespun  and  her  bonnet,  with  her 
bronze-gold  hair  gathered  under  it  in  the  same 
old  Psyche  knot.  She  must  wear  her  shoes,  she 
told  Hale,  until  she  got  out  of  town,  else  someone 
might  see  her,  but  Hale  had  said  she  would  be 
leaving  too  early  for  that:  and  so  she  had  gone 
from  the  Gap  as  she  had  come  into  it,  with  un- 
mittened  hands  and  bare  feet.  The  soft  wind  was 
very  good  to  those  dangling  feet,  and  she  itched  to 
have  them  on  the  green  grass  or  in  the  cool  waters 
through  which  the  old  horse  splashed.  Yes,  she 
was  going  home  again,  the  same  June  as  far  as 
mountain  eyes  could  see,  though  she  had  grown 
perceptibly,  and  her  little  face  had  blossomed 
from  her  heart  almost  into  a  woman's,  but  she 
knew  that  while  her  clothes  were  the  same,  they 
covered  quite  another  girl.  Time  wings  slowly  for 
the  young,  and  when  the  sensations  are  many  and 
the  experiences  are  new,  slowly  even  for  all — and 
thus  there  was  a  double  reason  why  it  seemed  an 
age  to  June  since  her  eyes  had  last  rested  on  the 
big  Pine. 


THE  TRAIL  OF  THE  LONESOME  PINE 

Here  was  the  place  where  Hale  had  put  his  big 
black  horse  into  a  dead  run,  and  as  vivid  a  thrill 
of  it  came  back  to  her  now  as  had  been  the  thrill 
of  the  race.  Then  they  began  to  climb  labori 
ously  up  the  rocky  creek — the  water  singing  a 
joyous  welcome  to  her  along  the  path,  ferns  and 
flowers  nodding  to  her  from  dead  leaves  and  rich 
mould  and  peeping  at  her  from  crevices  between 
the  rocks  on  the  creek-banks  as  high  up  as  the 
level  of  her  eyes — up  under  bending  branches  full- 
leafed,  with  the  warm  sunshine  darting  down 
through  them  upon  her  as  she  passed,  and  making 
a  playfellow  of  her  sunny  hair.  Here  was  the 
place  where  she  had  got  angry  with  Hale,  had  slid 
from  his  horse  and  stormed  with  tears.  What  a 
little  fool  she  had  been  when  Hale  had  meant  only 
to  be  kind!  He  was  never  anything  but  kind — 
Jack  was — dear,  dear  Jack!  That  wouldn't  hap 
pen  no  more,  she  thought,  and  straightway  she 
corrected  that  thought. 

"  It  won't  happen  any  more,"  she  said  aloud. 

"Whut'dyousay,  June?" 

The  old  man  lifted  his  bushy  beard  from  his 
chest  and  turned  his  head. 

"Nothin',  dad,"  she  said,  and  old  Judd,  himself 
in  a  deep  study,  dropped  back  into  it  again.  How 
often  she  had  said  that  to  herself — that  it  would 
happen  no  more — she  had  stopped  saying  it  to 
Hale,  because  he  laughed  and  forgave  her,  and 
seemed  to  love  her  mood,  whether  she  cried  from 

190 


THE  TRAIL  OF  THE  LONESOME  PINE 

joy  or  anger — and  yet  she  kept  on  doing  both  just 
the  same. 

Several  times  Devil  Judd  stopped  to  let  his 
horse  rest,  and  each  time,  of  course,  the  wooded 
slopes  of  the  mountains  stretched  downward  in 
longer  sweeps  of  summer  green,  and  across  the 
widening  valley  the  tops  of  the  mountains  beyond 
dropped  nearer  to  the  straight  level  of  her  eyes, 
while  beyond  them  vaster  blue  bulks  became 
visible  and  ran  on  and  on,  as  they  always  seemed, 
to  the  farthest  limits  of  the  world.  Even  out  there, 
Hale  had  told  her,  she  would  go  some  day.  The 
last  curving  up-sweep  came  finally,  and  there 
stood  the  big  Pine,  majestic,  unchanged  and 
murmuring  in  the  wind  like  the  undertone  of  a 
far-off  sea.  As  they  passed  the  base  of  it,  she 
reached  out  her  hand  and  let  the  tips  of  her  ringers 
brush  caressingly  across  its  trunk,  turned  quickly 
for  a  last  look  at  the  sunlit  valley  and  the  hills  of 
the  outer  world  and  then  the  two  passed  into  a 
green  gloom  of  shadow  and  thick  leaves  that  shut 
her  heart  in  as  suddenly  as  though  some  human 
hand  had  clutched  it.  She  was  going  home — to 
see  Bub  and  Loretta  and  Uncle  Billy  and  "old 
Hon"  and  her  step-mother  and  Dave,  and  yet  she 
felt  vaguely  troubled.  The  valley  on  the  other 
side  was  in  dazzling  sunshine — she  had  seen  that. 
The  sun  must  still  be  shining  over  there — it  must 
be  shining  above  her  over  here,  for  here  and  there 
shot  a  sunbeam  message  from  that  outer  world 

191 


THE  TRAIL  OF  THE  LONESOME  PINE 

down  through  the  leaves,  and  yet  it  seemed  that 
black  night  had  suddenly  fallen  about  her,  and 
helplessly  she  wondered  about  it  all,  with  her 
hands  gripped  tight  and  her  eyes  wide.  But  the 
mood  was  gone  when  they  emerged  at  the  "dead 
ening"  on  the  last  spur  and  she  saw  Lonesome 
Cove  and  the  roof  of  her  little  home  peacefully 
asleep  in  the  same  sun  that  shone  on  the  valley 
over  the  mountain.  Colour  came  to  her  face  and 
her  heart  beat  faster.  At  the  foot  of  the  spur  the 
road  had  been  widened  and  showed  signs  of  heavy 
hauling.  There  was  sawdust  in  the  mouth  of  the 
creek  and,  from  coal-dust,  the  water  was  black. 
The  ring  of  axes  and  the  shouts  of  ox-drivers  came 
from  the  mountain  side.  Up  the  creek  above  her 
father's  cabin  three  or  four  houses  were  being 
built  of  fresh  boards,  and  there  in  front  of  her  was 
a  new  store.  To  a  fence  one  side  of  it  two  horses 
were  hitched  and  on  one  horse  was  a  side-saddle. 
Before  the  door  stood  the  Red  Fox  and  Uncle 
Billy,  the  miller,  who  peered  at  her  for  a  moment 
through  his  big  spectacles  and  gave  her  a  wonder 
ing  shout  of  welcome  that  brought  her  cousin 
Loretta  to  the  door,  where  she  stopped  a  moment, 
anchored  with  surprise.  Over  her  shoulder  peered 
her  cousin  Dave,  and  June  saw  his  face  darken 
while  she  looked. 

"Why,  Honey,"  said  the  old  miller,  "have  ye 
really  come  home  agin?"  While  Loretta  simply 
said: 

192 


THE  TRAIL  OF  THE  LONESOME  PINE 

"My  Lord!"  and  came  out  and  stood  with  her 
hands  on  her  hips  looking  at  June. 

"Why,  ye  ain't  a  bit  changed!  I  knowed  ye 
wasn't  goin'  to  put  on  no  airs  like  Dave  thar  said" 
— she  turned  on  Dave,  who,  with  a  surly  shrug, 
wheeled  and  went  back  into  the  store.  Uncle 
Billy  was  going  home. 

"Come  down  to  see  us  right  away  now,"  he 
called  back.  "Ole  Hon's  might  nigh  crazy  to  git 
her  eyes  on  ye." 

"All  right,  Uncle  Billy,"  said  June,  "early  ter- 
morrer."  The  Red  Fox  did  not  open  his  lips,  but 
his  pale  eyes  searched  the  girl  from  head  to  foot. 

"Git  down,  June,"  said  Loretta,  "and  I'll  walk 
up  to  the  house  with  ye." 

June  slid  down,  Devil  Judd  started  the  old 
horse,  and  as  the  two  girls,  with  their  arms  about 
each  other's  waists,  followed,  the  wolfish  side  of 
the  Red  Fox's  face  lifted  in  an  ironical  snarl.  Bub 
was  standing  at  the  gate,  and  when  he  saw  his 
father  riding  home  alone,  his  wistful  eyes  filled  and 
his  cry  of  disappointment  brought  the  step-mother 
to  the  door. 

"Whar's  June?"  he  cried,  and  June  heard 
him,  and  loosening  herself  from  Loretta,  she  ran 
round  the  horse  and  had  Bub  in  her  arms.  Then 
she  looked  up  into  the  eyes  of  her  step-mother. 
The  old  woman's  face  looked  kind — so  kind  that 
for  the  first  time  in  her  life  June  did  what  her 
father  could  never  get  her  to  do:  she  called  her 

193 


THE  TRAIL  OF  THE  LONESOME  PINE 

"Mammy,"  and  then  she  gave  that  old  woman 
the  surprise  of  her  life — she  kissed  her.  Right 
away  she  must  see  everything,  and  Bub,  in  ecstasy, 
wanted  to  pilot  her  around  to  see  the  new  calf  and 
the  new  pigs  and  the  new  chickens,  but  dumbly 
June  looked  to  a  miracle  that  had  come  to  pass  to 
the  left  of  the  cabin — a  flower-garden,  the  like  of 
which  she  had  seen  only  in  her  dreams. 


194 


XVII 

her  lips  opened  soundlessly  and, 
dazed,  she  could  only  point  dumbly.  The 
old  step-mother  laughed: 

''Jack  Hale  done  that.  He  pestered  yo'  pap  to 
let  him  do  it  fer  ye,  an'  anything  Jack  Hale  wants 
from  yo'  pap,  he  gits.  I  thought  hit  was  plum' 
foolishness,  but  he's  got  things  to  eat  planted  thar, 
too,  an'  I  declar  hit's  right  purty." 

That  wonderful  garden!  June  started  for  it  on 
a  run.  There  was  a  broad  grass-walk  down 
through  the  middle  of  it  and  there  were  narrow 
grass-walks  running  sidewise,  just  as  they  did  in 
the  gardens  which  Hale  told  her  he  had  seen  in 
the  outer  world.  The  flowers  were  planted  in 
raised  beds,  and  all  the  ones  that  she  had  learned 
to  know  and  love  at  the  Gap  were  there,  and 
many  more  besides.  The  hollyhocks,  bachelor's 
buttons  and  marigolds  she  had  known  all  her  life. 
The  lilacs,  touch-me-nots,  tulips  and  narcissus 
she  had  learned  to  know  in  gardens  at  the  Gap. 
Two  rose-bushes  were  in  bloom,  and  there  were 
strange  grasses  and  plants  and  flowers  that  Jack 
would  tell  her  about  when  he  came.  One  side 
was  sentinelled  by  sun-flowers  and  another  side 
by  transplanted  laurel  and  rhododendron  shrubs; 

195 


THE  TRAIL  OF  THE  LONESOME  PINE 

and  hidden  in  the  plant-and-flower-bordered 
squares  were  the  vegetables  that  won  her  step 
mother's  tolerance  of  Hale's  plan.  Through  and 
through  June  walked,  her  dark  eyes  flashing 
joyously  here  and  there  when  they  were  not  a  little 
dimmed  with  tears,  with  Loretta  following  her, 
unsympathetic  in  appreciation,  wondering  that 
June  should  be  making  such  a  fuss  about  a  lot  of 
flowers,  but  envious  withal  when  she  half  guessed 
the  reason,  and  impatient  Bub  eager  to  show  her 
other  births  and  changes.  And,  over  and  over  all 
the  while,  June  was  whispering  to  herself: 

"My  garden — my  garden!" 

When  she  came  back  to  the  porch,  after  a  tour 
through  all  that  was  new  or  had  changed,  Dave 
had  brought  his  horse  and  Loretta's  to  the  gate. 
No,  he  wouldn't  come  in  and  "rest  a  spell" — 
"they  must  be  gittin'  along  home,"  he  said  shortly. 
But  old  Judd  Tolliver  insisted  that  he  should  stay 
to  dinner,  and  Dave  tied  the  horses  to  the  fence 
and  walked  to  the  porch,  not  lifting  his  eyes  to 
June.  Straightway  the  girl  went  into  the  house 
to  help  her  step-mother  with  dinner,  but  the  old 
woman  told  her  she  "reckoned  she  needn't  start 
in  yit" — adding  in  the  querulous  tone  June  knew 
so  well : 

"  I've  been  mighty  po'ly,  an'  thar'll  be  a  mighty 
lot  fer  you  to  do  now."  So  with  this  direful  proph 
ecy  in  her  ears  the  girl  hesitated.  The  old  woman 
looked  at  her  closely. 

196 


THE  TRAIL  OF  THE  LONESOME  PINE 

"Ye  ain't  a  bit  changed,"  she  said. 

They  were  the  words  Loretta  had  used,  and  in 
the  voice  of  each  was  the  same  strange  tone  of  dis 
appointment.  June  wondered:  were  they  sorry 
she  had  not  come  back  putting  on  airs  and  fussed 
up  with  ribbons  and  feathers  that  they  might  hear 
her  picked  to  pieces  and  perhaps  do  some  of  the 
picking  themselves  ?  Not  Loretta,  surely — but 
the  old  step-mother!  June  left  the  kitchen  and  sat 
down  just  inside  the  door.  The  Red  Fox  and  two 
other  men  had  sauntered  up  from  the  store  and  all 
were  listening  to  his  quavering  chat: 

"I  seed  a  vision  last  night,  and  thar's  trouble 
a-comin'  in  these  mountains.  The  Lord  told  me 
so  straight  from  the  clouds.  These  railroads  and 
coal-mines  is  a-goin'  to  raise  taxes,  so  that  a  pore 
man'll  have  to  sell  his  hogs  and  his  corn  to  pay 
'em  an'  have  nothin'  left  to  keep  him  from  starv- 
in'  to  death.  Them  police-fellers  over  thar  at  the 
Gap  is  a-stirrin'  up  strife  and  a-runnin'  things 
over  thar  as  though  the  earth  was  made  fer  'em, 
an'  the  citizens  ain't  goin'  to  stand  it.  An'  this 
war's  a-comin'  on  an'  thar'll  be  shootin'  an'  killin' 
over  thar  an'  over  hyeh.  I  seed  all  this  devilment 
in  a  vision  last  night,  as  shore  as  I'm  settin'  hyeh." 

Old  Judd  grunted,  shifted  his  huge  shoulders, 
parted  his  mustache  and  beard  with  two  fingers 
and  spat  through  them. 

"Well,  I  reckon  you  didn't  see  no  devilment, 
Red,  that  you  won't  take  a  hand  in,  if  it  comes." 

197 


THE  TRAIL  OF  THE  LONESOME  PINE 

The  other  men  laughed,  but  the  Red  Fox  looked 
meek  and  lowly. 

"  I'm  a  servant  of  the  Lord.  He  says  do  this, 
an'  I  does  it  the  best  I  know  how.  I  goes  about 
a-preachin'  the  word  in  the  wilderness  an*  a-heal- 
in'  the  sick  with  soothin'  yarbs  and  sech." 

"An*  a-makin'  compacts  with  the  devil,"  said 
old  Judd  shortly,  "when  the  eye  of  man  is  a-lookin* 
t'other  way."  The  left  side  of  the  Red  Fox's  face 
twitched  into  the  faintest  shadow  of  a  snarl,  but, 
shaking  his  head,  he  kept  still. 

"Well,"  said  Sam  Earth,  who  was  thin  and  long 
and  sandy,  "  I  don't  keer  what  them  fellers  do  on 
t'other  side  o'  the  mountain,  but  what  air  they 
a-comin'  over  here  fer?" 

Old  Judd  spoke  again. 

"To  give  you  a  job,  if  you  wasn't  too  durned 
lazy  to  work." 

"Yes,"  said  the  other  man,  who  was  dark, 
swarthy  and  whose  black  eyebrows  met  across  the 
bridge  of  his  nose — "and  that  damned  Hale, 
who's  a-tearin'  up  Hellfire  here  in  the  cove."  The 
old  man  lifted  his  eyes.  Young  Dave's  face  wore 
a  sudden  malignant  sympathy  which  made  June 
clench  her  hands  a  little  more  tightly. 

"What  about  him?  You  must  have  been  over 
to  the  Gap  lately — like  Dave  thar — did  you  git 
board  in  the  calaboose  ?"  It  was  a  random  thrust, 
but  it  was  accurate  and  it  went  home,  and  there  was 
silence  for  a  while.  Presently  old  Judd  went  on: 

198 


THE  TRAIL  OF  THE  LONESOME  PINE 

"Taxes  hain't  goin'  to  be  raised,  and  if  they 
are,  folks  will  be  better  able  to  pay  'em.  Them 
police-fellers  at  the  Gap  don't  bother  nobody  if 
he  behaves  himself.  This  war  will  start  when  it 
does  start,  an'  as  for  Hale,  he's  as  square  an* 
clever  a  feller  as  I've  ever  seed.  His  word  is  just 
as  good  as  his  bond.  I'm  a-goin'  to  sell  him  this 
land.  It'll  be  his'n,  an'  he  can  do  what  he  wants 
to  with  it.  I'm  his  friend,  and  I'm  goin'  to  stay 
his  friend  as  long  as  he  goes  on  as  he's  goin'  now, 
an'  I'm  not  goin'  to  see  him  bothered  as  long  as 
he  tends  to  his  own  business." 

The  words  fell  slowly  and  the  weight  of  them 
rested  heavily  on  all  except  on  June.  Her  fingers 
loosened  and  she  smiled. 

The  Red  Fox  rose,  shaking  his  head. 

"All  right,  Judd  Tolliver,"  he  said  warningly. 

"Come  in  and  git  something  to  eat,  Red." 

"No,"  he  said,  "I'll  be  gittin'  along"— and  he 
went,  still  shaking  his  head. 

The  table  was  covered  with  an  oil-cloth  spotted 
with  drippings  from  a  candle.  The  plates  and 
cups  were  thick  and  the  spoons  were  of  pewter. 
The  bread  was  soggy  and  the  bacon  was  thick  and 
floating  in  grease.  The  men  ate  and  the  women 
served,  as  in  ancient  days.  They  gobbled  their 
food  like  wolves,  and  when  they  drank  their 
coffee,  the  noise  they  made  was  painful  to  June's 
ears.  There  were  no  napkins  and  when  her 
father  pushed  his  chair  back,  he  wiped  his  drip- 

199 


THE  TRAIL  OF  THE  LONESOME  PINE 

ping  mouth  with  the  back  of  his  sleeve.  And 
Loretta  and  the  step-mother — they,  too,  ate  with 
their  knives  and  used  their  ringers.  Poor  June 
quivered  with  a  vague  newborn  disgust.  Ah,  had 
she  not  changed — in  ways  they  could  not  see! 

June  helped  clear  away  the  dishes — the  old 
woman  did  not  object  to  that — listening  to  the  gos 
sip  of  the  mountains — courtships,  marriages, 
births,  deaths,  the  growing  hostility  in  the  feud, 
the  random  killing  of  this  man  or  that — Hale's 
doings  in  Lonesome  Cove. 

"He's  comin'  over  hyeh  agin  next  Saturday," 
said  the  old  woman. 

"Is  he  ?"  said  Loretta  in  a  way  that  made  June 
turn  sharply  from  her  dishes  toward  her.  She 
knew  Hale  was  not  coming,  but  she  said  nothing. 
The  old  woman  was  lighting  her  pipe. 

"Yes — you  better  be  over  hyeh  in  yo'  best  bib 
and  tucker." 

"Pshaw,"  said  Loretta,  but  June  saw  two 
bright  spots  come  into  her  pretty  cheeks,  and  she 
herself  burned  inwardly.  The  old  woman  was 
looking  at  her. 

* 'Pears  like  you  air  mighty  quiet,  June." 

"That's  so,"  said  Loretta,  looking  at  her,  too. 

June,  still  silent,  turned  back  to  her  dishes. 
They  were  beginning  to  take  notice  after  all,  for 
the  girl  hardly  knew  that  she  had  not  opened  her 
lips. 

Once  only  Dave  spoke  to  her,   and  that  was 

200 


THE  TRAIL  OF  THE  LONESOME  PINE 

when  Loretta  said  she  must  go.  June  was  out  in 
the  porch  looking  at  the  already  beloved  garden, 
and  hearing  his  step  she  turned.  He  looked  her 
steadily  in  the  eyes.  She  saw  his  gaze  drop  to  the 
fairy-stone  at  her  throat,  and  a  faint  sneer  ap 
peared  at  his  set  mouth — a  sneer  for  June's  folly 
and  what  he  thought  was  uppishness  in  "furri- 
ners"  like  Hale. 

"So  you  ain't  good  enough  fer  him  jest  as  ye 
air — air  ye?"  he  said  slowly.  He's  got  to  make 
ye  all  over  agin — so's  you'll  be  fitten  fer  him." 

He  turned  away  without  looking  to  see  how 
deep  his  barbed  shaft  went  and,  startled,  June 
flushed  to  her  hair.  In  a  few  minutes  they  were 
gone — Dave  without  the  exchange  of  another  word 
with  June,  and  Loretta  with  a  parting  cry  that 
she  would  come  back  on  Saturday.  The  old  man 
went  to  the  cornfield  high  above  the  cabin,  the  old 
woman,  groaning  with  pains  real  and  fancied,  lay 
down  on  a  creaking  bed,  and  June,  with  Dave's 
wound  rankling,  went  out  with  Bub  to  see  the  new 
doings  in  Lonesome  Cove.  The  geese  cackled 
before  her,  the  hog-fish  darted  like  submarine 
arrows  from  rock  to  rock  and  the  willows  bent  in 
the  same  wistful  way  toward  their  shadows  in  the 
little  stream,  but  its  crystal  depths  were  there  no 
longer — floating  sawdust  whirled  in  eddies  on 
the  surface  and  the  water  was  black  as  soot. 
Here  and  there  the  white  belly  of  a  fish  lay  up 
turned  to  the  sun,  for  the  cruel,  deadly  work  of 

201 


THE  TRAIL  OF  THE  LONESOME  PINE 

civilization  had  already  begun.  Farther  up  the 
creek  was  a  buzzing  monster  that,  creaking  and 
snorting,  sent  a  flashing  disk,  rimmed  with  sharp 
teeth,  biting  a  savage  way  through  a  log,  that 
screamed  with  pain  as  the  brutal  thing  tore 
through  its  vitals,  and  gave  up  its  life  each  time 
with  a  ghost-like  cry  of  agony.  Farther  on  little 
houses  were  being  built  of  fresh  boards,  and  far 
ther  on  the  water  of  the  creek  got  blacker  still. 
June  suddenly  clutched  Bud's  arms.  Two  de 
mons  had  appeared  on  a  pile  of  fresh  dirt  above 
them — sooty,  begrimed,  with  black  faces  and 
black  hands,  and  in  the  cap  of  each  was  a  smoking 
little  lamp. 

"Huh,"  said  Bub,  "that  ain't  nothin'!  Hello, 
Bill,"  he  called  bravely. 

"Hello,  Bub,"  answered  one  of  the  two  de 
mons,  and  both  stared  at  the  lovely  little  appari 
tion  who  was  staring  with  such  naive  horror  at 
them.  It  was  all  very  wonderful,  though,  and  it 
was  all  happening  in  Lonesome  Cove,  but  Jack 
Hale  was  doing  it  all  and,  therefore,  it  was  all 
right,  thought  June — no  matter  what  Dave  said. 
Moreover,  the  ugly  spot  on  the  great,  beautiful 
breast  of  the  Mother  was  such  a  little  one  after  all 
and  June  had  no  idea  how  it  must  spread.  Above 
the  opening  for  the  mines,  the  creek  was  crystal- 
clear  as  ever,  the  great  hills  were  the  same,  and  the 
sky  and  the  clouds,  and  the  cabin  and  the  fields  of 
corn.  Nothing  could  happen  to  them,  but  if  even 

202 


THE  TRAIL  OF  THE  LONESOME  PINE 

they  were  wiped  out  by  Kale's  hand  she  would 
have  made  no  complaint.  A  wood-thrush  flitted 
from  a  ravine  as  she  and  Bub  went  back  down  the 
creek — and  she  stopped  with  uplifted  face  to 
listen.  All  her  life  she  had  loved  its  song,  and  this 
was  the  first  time  she  had  heard  it  in  Lonesome 
Cove  since  she  had  learned  its  name  from  Hale. 
She  had  never  heard  it  thereafter  without  thinking 
of  him,  and  she  thought  of  him  now  while  it  was 
breathing  out  the  very  spirit  of  the  hills,  and  she 
drew  a  long  sigh  for  already  she  was  lonely  and 
hungering  for  him.  The  song  ceased  and  a  long 
wavering  cry  came  from  the  cabin. 

"So-o-o-cow!    S-o-o-kee!   S-o-o-kee!" 

The  old  mother  was  calling  the  cows.  It  was 
near  milking-time,  and  with  a  vague  uneasiness 
she  hurried  Bub  home.  She  saw  her  father  coming 
down  from  the  cornfield.  She  saw  the  two  cows 
come  from  the  woods  into  the  path  that  led  to  the 
barn,  switching  their  tails  and  snatching  mouth- 
fuls  from  the  bushes  as  they  swung  down  the  hill 
and,  when  she  reached  the  gate,  her  step-mother 
was  standing  on  the  porch  with  one  hand  on  her 
hip  and  the  other  shading  her  eyes  from  the  slant 
ing  sun — waiting  for  her.  Already  kindness  and 
consideration  were  gone. 

"Whar  you  been,  June?  Hurry  up,  now. 
You've  had  a  long  restin'-spell  while  I've  been 
a-workin'  myself  to  death." 

It  was  the  old  tone,  and  the  old  fierce  rebellion 
203 


THE  TRAIL  OF  THE  LONESOME  PINE 

rose  within  June,  but  Hale  had  told  her  to  be 
patient.  She  could  not  check  the  flash  from  her 
eyes,  but  she  shut  her  lips  tight  on  the  answer  that 
sprang  to  them,  and  without  a  word  she  went  to 
the  kitchen  for  the  milking-pails.  The  cows  had 
forgotten  her.  They  eyed  her  with  suspicion  and 
were  restive.  The  first  one  kicked  at  her  when  she 
put  her  beautiful  head  against  its  soft  flank.  Her 
muscles  had  been  in  disuse  and  her  hands  were 
cramped  and  her  forearms  ached  before  she  was 
through — but  she  kept  doggedly  at  her  task.  When 
she  finished,  her  father  had  fed  the  horses  and 
was  standing  behind  her. 

"Hit's  mighty  good  to  have  you  back  agin, 
little  gal." 

It  was  not  often  that  he  smiled  or  showed  ten 
derness,  much  less  spoke  it  thus  openly,  and  June 
was  doubly  glad  that  she  had  held  her  tongue. 
Then  she  helped  her  step-mother  get  supper.  The 
fire  scorched  her  face,  that  had  grown  unaccus 
tomed  to  such  heat,  and  she  burned  one  hand, 
but  she  did  not  let  her  step-mother  see  even  that. 
Again  she  noticed  with  aversion  the  heavy  thick 
dishes  and  the  pewter  spoons  and  the  candle- 
grease  on  the  oil-cloth,  and  she  put  the  dishes 
down  and,  while  the  old  woman  was  out  of  the 
room,  attacked  the  spots  viciously.  Again  she 
saw  her  father  and  Bub  ravenously  gobbling  their 
coarse  food  while  she  and  her  step-mother  served 
and  waited,  and  she  began  to  wonder.  The  women 

204 


THE  TRAIL  OF  THE  LONESOME  PINE 

sat  at  the  table  with  the  men  over  in  the  Gap — 
why  not  here  ?  Then  her  father  went  silently  to 
his  pipe  and  Bub  to  playing  with  the  kitten  at  the 
kitchen-door,  while  she  and  her  mother  ate  with 
never  a  word.  Something  began  to  stifle  her,  but 
she  choked  it  down.  There  were  the  dishes  to 
be  cleared  away  and  washed,  and  the  pans  and 
kettles  to  be  cleaned.  Her  back  ached,  her  arms 
were  tired  to  the  shoulders  and  her  burned  hand 
quivered  with  pain  when  all  was  done.  The  old 
woman  had  left  her  to  do  the  last  few  little  things 
alone  and  had  gone  to  her  pipe.  Both  she  and  her 
father  were  sitting  in  silence  on  the  porch  when 
June  went  out  there.  Neither  spoke  to  each  other, 
nor  to  her,  and  both  seemed  to  be  part  of  the 
awful  stillness  that  engulfed  the  world.  Bub  fell 
asleep  in  the  soft  air,  and  June  sat  and  sat  and  sat. 
That  was  all  except  for  the  stars  that  came  out 
over  the  mountains  and  were  slowly  being  sprayed 
over  the  sky,  and  the  pipings  of  frogs  from  the 
little  creek.  Once  the  wind  came  with  a  sudden 
sweep  up  the  river  and  she  thought  she  could  hear 
the  creak  of  Uncle  Billy's  water-wheel.  It  smote 
her  with  sudden  gladness,  not  so  much  because  it 
was  a  relief  and  because  she  loved  the  old  miller, 
but — such  is  the  power  of  association — because 
she  now  loved  the  mill  more,  loved  it  because  the 
mill  over  in  the  Gap  had  made  her  think  more  of 
the  mill  at  the  mouth  of  Lonesome  Cove.  A  tap 
ping  vibrated  through  the  railing  of  the  porch  on 

205 


THE  TRAIL  OF  THE  LONESOME  PINE 

which  her  cheek  lay.  Her  father  was  knocking  the 
ashes  from  his  pipe.  A  similar  tapping  sounded 
inside  at  the  fireplace.  The  old  woman  had  gone 
and  Bub  was  in  bed,  and  she  had  heard  neither 
move.  The  old  man  rose  with  a  yawn. 

"Time  to  lay  down,  June." 

The  girl  rose.  They  all  slept  in  one  room.  She 
did  not  dare  to  put  on  her  night-gown — her  mother 
would  see  it  in  the  morning.  So  she  slipped  off  her 
dress,  as  she  had  done  all  her  life,  and  crawled 
into  bed  with  Bub,  who  lay  in  the  middle  of  it 
and  who  grunted  peevishly  when  she  pushed  him 
with  some  difficulty  over  to  his  side.  There  were 
no  sheets — not  even  one — and  the  coarse  blankets, 
which  had  a  close  acrid  odour  that  she  had  never 
noticed  before,  seemed  almost  to  scratch  her 
flesh.  She  had  hardly  been  to  bed  that  early  since 
she  had  left  home,  and  she  lay  sleepless,  watching 
the  firelight  play  hide  and  seek  with  the  shadows 
among  the  aged,  smoky  rafters  and  flicker  over 
the  strings  of  dried  things  that  hung  from  the  ceil 
ing.  In  the  other  corner  her  father  and  step 
mother  snored  heartily,  and  Bub,  beside  her,  was 
in  a  nerveless  slumber  that  would  not  come  to  her 
that  night — tired  and  aching  as  she  was.  So, 
quietly,  by  and  by,  she  slipped  out  of  bed  and  out 
the  door  to  the  porch.  The  moon  was  rising  and 
the  radiant  sheen  of  it  had  dropped  down  over  the 
mountain  side  like  a  golden  veil  and  was  lighting 
up  the  white  rising  mists  that  trailed  the  curves  of 

206 


THE  TRAIL  OF  THE  LONESOME  PINE 

the  river.  It  sank  below  the  still  crests  of  the  pines 
beyond  the  garden  and  dropped  on  until  it  illu 
mined,  one  by  one,  the  dewy  heads  of  the  flowers. 
She  rose  and  walked  down  the  grassy  path  in  her 
bare  feet  through  the  silent  fragrant  emblems  of 
the  planter's  thought  of  her — touching  this  flower 
and  that  with  the  tips  of  her  fingers.  And  when 
she  went  back,  she  bent  to  kiss  one  lovely  rose 
and,  as  she  lifted  her  head  with  a  start  of  fear,  the 
dew  from  it  shining  on  her  lips  made  her  red 
mouth  as  flower-like  and  no  less  beautiful.  A  yell 
had  shattered  the  quiet  of  the  world — not  the  high 
fox-hunting  yell  of  the  mountains,  but  something 
new  and  strange.  Up  the  creek  were  strange 
lights.  A  loud  laugh  shattered  the  succeeding 
stillness — a  laugh  she  had  never  heard  before  in 
Lonesome  Cove.  Swiftly  she  ran  back  to  the 
porch.  Surely  strange  things  were  happening 
there.  A  strange  spirit  pervaded  the  Cove  and 
the  very  air  throbbed  with  premonitions.  What 
was  the  matter  with  everything — what  was  the 
matter  with  her  ?  She  knew  that  she  was  lonely 
and  that  she  wanted  Hale — but  what  else  was  it  ? 
She  shivered — and  not  alone  from  the  chill  night- 
air — and  puzzled  and  wondering  and  stricken  at 
heart,  she  crept  back  to  bed. 


207 


XVIII 

PAUSING  at  the  Pine  to  let  his  big  black  horse 
blow  a  while,  Hale  mounted  and  rode  slowly 
down  the  green-and-gold  gloom  of  the  ravine.  In 
his  pocket  was  a  quaint  little  letter  from  June  to 
"  John  Hail";  thanking  him  for  the  beautiful  gar 
den,  saying  she  was  lonely,  and  wanting  him  to 
come  soon.  From  the  low  flank  of  the  mountain 
he  stopped,  looking  down  on  the  cabin  in  Lone 
some  Cove.  It  was  a  dreaming  summer  day.  Trees, 
air,  blue  sky  and  white  cloud  were  all  in  a  dream, 
and  even  the  smoke  lazing  from  the  chimney 
seemed  drifting  away  like  the  spirit  of  something 
human  that  cared  little  whither  it  might  be  borne. 
Something  crimson  emerged  from  the  door  and 
stopped  in  indecision  on  the  steps  of  the  porch. 
It  moved  again,  stopped  at  the  corner  of  the 
house,  and  then,  moving  on  with  a  purpose, 
stopped  once  more  and  began  to  flicker  slowly  to 
and  fro  like  a  flame.  June  was  working  in  her 
garden.  Hale  thought  he  would  halloo  to  her, 
and  then  he  decided  to  surprise  her,  and  he  went 
on  down,  hitched  his  horse  and  stole  up  to  the 
garden  fence.  On  the  way  he  pulled  up  a  bunch 
of  weeds  by  the  roots  and  with  them  in  his  arms 
he  noiselessly  climbed  the  fence.  June  neither 

208 


THE  TRAIL  OF  THE  LONESOME  PINE 

heard  nor  saw  him.  Her  underlip  was  clenched 
tight  between  her  teeth,  the  little  cross  swung 
violently  at  her  throat  and  she  was  so  savagely 
wielding  the  light  hoe  he  had  given  her  that  he 
thought  at  first  she  must  be  killing  a  snake;  but 
she  was  only  fighting  to  death  every  weed  that 
dared  to  show  its  head.  Her  feet  and  her  head 
were  bare,  her  face  was  moist  and  flushed  and  her 
hair  was  a  tumbled  heap  of  what  was  to  him  the 
rarest  gold  under  the  sun.  The  wind  was  still, 
the  leaves  were  heavy  with  the  richness  of  full 
growth,  bees  were  busy  about  June's  head  and 
not  another  soul  was  in  sight 

"Good  morning,  little  girl!"  he  called  cheerily. 

The  hoe  was  arrested  at  the  height  of  a  vicious 
stroke  and  the  little  girl  whirled  without  a  cry, 
but  the  blood  from  her  pumping  heart  crimsoned 
her  face  and  made  her  eyes  shine  with  gladness. 
Her  eyes  went  to  her  feet  and  her  hands  to  her 
hair. 

"You  oughtn't  to  slip  up  an'  s-startle  a  lady 
that-a-way,"  she  said  with  grave  rebuke,  and 
Hale  looked  humbled.  "Now  you  just  set  there 
and  wait  till  I  come  back." 

"No — no — I  want  you  to  stay  just  as  you  are." 

"Honest?" 

Hale  gravely  crossed  heart  and  body  and  June 
gave  out  a  happy  little  laugh — for  he  had  caught 
that  gesture — a  favourite  one — from  her.  Then 
suddenly: 

209 


THE  TRAIL  OF  THE  LONESOME  PINE 

"How  long?"  She  was  thinking  of  what  Dave 
said,  but  the  subtle  twist  in  her  meaning  passed 
Hale  by.  He  raised  his  eyes  to  the  sun  and  June 
shook  her  head. 

"  You  got  to  go  home  'fore  sundown." 

She  dropped  her  hoe  and  came  over  toward  him. 

"  Whut  you  doin'  with  them — those  weeds  ?" 

"Going  to  plant  'em  in  our  garden."  Hale  had 
got  a  theory  from  a  garden-book  that  the  humble 
burdock,  pig-weed  and  other  lowly  plants  were 
good  for  ornamental  effect,  and  he  wanted  to  ex 
periment,  but  June  gave  a  shrill  whoop  and  fell  to 
scornful  laughter.  Then  she  snatched  the  weeds 
from  him  and  threw  them  over  the  fence. 

"Why,  June!" 

"Not  in  my  garden.  Them's  stagger-weeds — 
they  kill  cows,"  and  she  went  off  again. 

"I  reckon  you  better  c-consult  me  'bout  weeds 
next  time.  I  don't  know  much  'bout  flowers,  but 
I've  knowed  all  my  life  'bout  weeds.'9  She  laid  so 
much  emphasis  on  the  word  that  Hale  wondered 
for  the  moment  if  her  words  had  a  deeper  mean 
ing — but  she  went  on: 

"Ever'  spring  I  have  to  watch  the  cows  fer  two 
weeks  to  keep  'em  from  eatin' — those  weeds." 
Her  self-corrections  were  always  made  gravely 
now,  and  Hale  consciously  ignored  them  except 
when  he  had  something  to  tell  her  that  she  ought 
to  know.  Everything,  it  seemed,  she  wanted  to 
know. 

210 


THE  TRAIL  OF  THE  LONESOME  PINE 

"Do  they  really  kill  cows?" 

June  snapped  her  fingers:  "Like  that.  But 
you  just  come  on  here,"  she  added  with  pretty 
imperiousness.  "I  want  to  axe — ask  you  some 
things — what's  that?" 

"Scarlet  sage." 

"Scarlet  sage,"  repeated  June.     "An'  that?" 

"Nasturtium,  and  that's  Oriental  grass." 

"  Nas-tur-tium,  Oriental.  An'  what's  that 
vine?" 

"That  comes  from  North  Africa — they  call  it 
'matrimonial  vine." 

"Whut  fer?"  asked  June  quickly. 

"Because  it  clings  so."  Hale  smiled,  but  June 
saw  none  of  his  humour — the  married  people  she 
knew  clung  till  the  finger  of  death  unclasped  them. 
She  pointed  to  a  bunch  of  tall  tropical-looking 
plants  with  great  spreading  leaves  and  big  green- 
white  stalks. 

"They're  called  Palrn^  Christi." 

"Whut?" 

"That's  Latin.  It  means  'Hands  of  Christ,'" 
said  Hale  with  reverence.  "You  see  how  the 
leaves  are  spread  out — don't  they  look  like  hands  ?' 

"Not  much,"  said  June  frankly.  "What's 
Latin?" 

"Oh,  that's  a  dead  language  that  some  people 
used  a  long,  long  time  ago." 

"What  do  folks  use  it  nowadays  fer?  Why 
don't  they  just  say  'Hands  o'  Christ'  ?" 

211 


THE  TRAIL  OF  THE  LONESOME  PINE 

"I  don't  know,"  he  said  helplessly,  "but  maybe 
you'll  study  Latin  some  of  these  days."  June 
shook  her  head. 

"Gettin'  your  language  is  a  big  enough  job  fer 
me,"  she  said  with  such  quaint  seriousness  that 
Hale  could  not  laugh.  She  looked  up  suddenly. 
"  You  been  a  long  time  git-gettin'  over  here." 

"Yes,  and  now  you  want  to  send  me  home 
before  sundown." 

"  I'm  afeer — I'm  afraid  for  you.  Have  you  got 
a  gun  ?"  Hale  tapped  his  breast-pocket. 

"Always.    What  are  you  afraid  of?" 

"The  Falins."     She  clenched  her  hands. 

"I'd  like  to  see  one  o'  them  Falins  tech  ye,"  she 
added  fiercely,  and  then  she  gave  a  quick  look  at 
the  sun. 

"You  better  go  now,  Jack.  I'm  afraid  fer  you. 
Where's  your  horse  ?"  Hale  waved  his  hand. 

"Down  there.  All  right,  little  girl,"  he  said. 
"I  ought  to  go,  anyway."  And,  to  humour  her,  he 
started  for  the  gate.  There  he  bent  to  kiss  her, 
but  she  drew  back. 

"I'm  afraid  of  Dave,"  she  said,  but  she  leaned 
on  the  gate  and  looked  long  at  him  with  wistful 
eyes. 

"  Jack,"  she  said,  and  her  eyes  swam  suddenly, 
"it'll  most  kill  me — but  I  reckon  you  better  not 
come  over  here  much."  Hale  made  light  of  it  all. 

"Nonsense,  I'm  coming  just  as  often  as  I  can." 
June  smiled  then. 

212 


THE  TRAIL  OF  THE  LONESOME  PINE 

"All  right.    I'll  watch  out  fer  ye." 

He  went  down  the  path,  her  eyes  following  him, 
and  when  he  looked  back  from  the  spur  he  saw 
her  sitting  in  the  porch  and  watching  that  she 
might  wave  him  farewell. 

Hale  could  not  go  over  to  Lonesome  Cove  much 
that  summer,  for  he  was  away  from  the  mountains 
a  good  part  of  the  time,  and  it  was  a  weary,  rack 
ing  summer  for  June  when  he  was  not  there.  The 
step-mother  was  a  stern  taskmistress,  and  the  girl 
worked  hard,  but  no  night  passed  that  she  did  not 
spend  an  hour  or  more  on  her  books,  and  by  de 
grees  she  bribed  and  stormed  Bub  into  learning 
his  A,  B,  C's  and  digging  at  a  blue-back  spelling 
book.  But  all  through  the  day  there  were  times 
when  she  could  play  with  the  boy  in  the  garden, 
and  every  afternoon,  when  it  was  not  raining,  she 
would  slip  away  to  a  little  ravine  behind  the  cabin, 
where  a  log  had  fallen  across  a  little  brook,  and 
there  in  the  cool,  sun-pierced  shadows  she  would 
study,  read  and  dream — with  the  water  bubbling 
underneath  and  wood-thrushes  singing  overhead. 
For  Hale  kept  her  well  supplied  with  books.  He 
had  given  her  children's  books  at  first,  but  she 
outgrew  them  when  the  first  love-story  fell  into  her 
hands,  and  then  he  gave  her  novels — good,  old 
ones  and  the  best  of  the  new  ones,  and  they  were 
to  her  what  water  is  to  a  thing  athirst.  But  the 
happy  days  were  when  Hale  was  there.  She  had 
a  thousand  questions  for  him  to  answer,  whenever 

213 


THE  TRAIL  OF  THE  LONESOME  PINE 

he  came,  about  birds,  trees  and  flowers  and  the 
things  she  read  in  her  books.  The  words  she 
could  not  understand  in  them  she  marked,  so  that 
she  could  ask  their  meaning,  and  it  was  amazing 
how  her  vocabulary  increased.  Moreover,  she 
was  always  trying  to  use  the  new  words  she  learned, 
and  her  speech  was  thus  a  quaint  mixture  of  ver 
nacular,  self-corrections  and  unexpected  words. 
Happening  once  to  have  a  volume  of  Keats  in  his 
pocket,  he  read  some  of  it  to  her,  and  while  she 
could  not  understand,  the  music  of  the  lines  fas 
cinated  her  and  she  had  him  leave  that  with  her, 
too.  She  never  tired  hearing  him  tell  of  the  places 
where  he  had  been  and  the  people  he  knew  and 
the  music  and  plays  he  had  heard  and  seen.  And 
when  he  told  her  that  she,  too,  should  see  all  those 
wonderful  things  some  day,  her  deep  eyes  took 
fire  and  she  dropped  her  head  far  back  between 
her  shoulders  and  looked  long  at  the  stars  that 
held  but  little  more  wonder  for  her  than  the  world 
of  which  he  told.  But  each  time  he  was  there  she 
grew  noticeably  shyer  with  him  and  never  once 
was  the  love-theme  between  them  taken  up  in 
open  words.  Hale  was  reluctant,  if  only  because 
she  was  still  such  a  child,  and  if  he  took  her  hand 
or  put  his  own  on  her  wonderful  head  or  his  arm 
around  her  as  they  stood  in  the  garden  under  the 
stars — he  did  it  as  to  a  child,  though  the  leap  in 
her  eyes  and  the  quickening  of  his  own  heart  told 
him  the  lie  that  he  was  acting,  rightly,  to  her  and 

214 


THE  TRAIL  OF  THE  LONESOME  PINE 

to  himself.  And  no  more  now  were  there  any 
breaking-downs  within  her — there  was  only  a 
calm  faith  that  staggered  him  and  gave  him  an 
ever-mounting  sense  of  his  responsibility  for  what 
ever  might,  through  the  part  he  had  taken  in 
moulding  her  life,  be  in  store  for  her. 

When  he  was  not  there,  life  grew  a  little  easier 
for  her  in  time,  because  of  her  dreams,  the  pa 
tience  that  was  built  from  them  and  Hale's  kindly 
words,  the  comfort  of  her  garden  and  her  books, 
and  the  blessed  force  of  habit.  For  as  time  went 
on,  she  got  consciously  used  to  the  rough  life,  the 
coarse  food  and  the  rude  ways  of  her  own  people 
and  her  own  home.  And  though  she  relaxed  not 
a  bit  in  her  own  dainty  cleanliness,  the  shrinking 
that  she  felt  when  she  first  arrived  home,  came  to 
her  at  longer  and  longer  intervals.  Once  a  week 
she  went  down  to  Uncle  Billy's,  where  she  watched 
the  water-wheel  dripping  sun-jewels  into  the  sluice, 
the  kingfisher  darting  like  a  blue  bolt  upon  his 
prey,  and  listening  to  the  lullaby  that  the  water 
played  to  the  sleepy  old  mill — and  stopping,  both 
ways,  to  gossip  with  old  Hon  in  her  porch  under 
the  honeysuckle  vines.  Uncle  Billy  saw  the  change 
in  her  and  he  grew  vaguely  uneasy  about  her — 
she  dreamed  so  much,  she  was  at  times  so  restless, 
she  asked  so  many  questions  he  could  not  answer, 
and  she  failed  to  ask  so  many  that  were  on  the  tip 
of  her  tongue.  He  saw  that  while  her  body  was  at 
home,  her  thoughts  rarely  were;  and  it  all  haunted 

215 


THE  TRAIL  OF  THE  LONESOME  PINE 

him  with  a  vague  sense  that  he  was  losing  her. 
But  old  Hon  laughed  at  him  and  told  him  he 
was  an  old  fool  and  to  "git  another  pair  o'  specs" 
and  maybe  he  could  see  that  the  "little  gal"  was 
in  love.  This  startled  Uncle  Billy,  for  he  was  so 
like  a  father  to  June  that  he  was  as  slow  as  a 
father  in  recognizing  that  his  child  has  grown  to 
such  absurd  maturity.  But  looking  back  to  the 
beginning — how  the  little  girl  had  talked  of  the 
"furriner"  who  had  come  into  Lonesome  Cove 
all  during  the  six  months  he  was  gone;  how  gladly 
she  had  gone  away  to  the  Gap  to  school,  how  anx 
ious  she  was  to  go  still  farther  away  again,  and, 
remembering  all  the  strange  questions  she  asked 
him  about  things  in  the  outside  world  of  which  he 
knew  nothing — Uncle  Billy  shook  his  head  in  con 
firmation  of  his  own  conclusion,  and  with  all  his 
soul  he  wondered  about  Hale — what  kind  of  a  man 
he  was  and  what  his  purpose  was  with  June — and 
of  every  man  who  passed  his  mill  he  never  failed 
to  ask  if  he  knew  "that  ar  man  Hale"  and  what 
he  knew.  All  he  had  heard  had  been  in  Hale's 
favour,  except  from  young  Dave  Tolliver,  the  Red 
Fox  or  from  any  Falin  of  the  crowd,  which  Hale 
had  prevented  from  capturing  Dave.  Their  state 
ments  bothered  him — especially  the  Red  Fox's 
evil  hints  and  insinuations  about  Hale's  purposes 
one-  day  at  the  mill.  The  miller  thought  of  them 
all  the  afternoon  and  all  the  way  home,  and  when 
he  sat  down  at  his  fire  his  eyes  very  naturally  and 

216 


THE  TRAIL  OF  THE  LONESOME  PINE 

simply  rose  to  his  old  rifle  over  the  door — and 
then  he  laughed  to  himself  so  loudly  that  old 
Hon  heard  him. 

"Air  you  goin'  crazy,  Billy?"  she  asked. 
"  Whut  you  studyin'  'bout  ?" 

"Nothin';  I  was  jest  a-thinkin*  Devil  Judd 
wouldn't  leave  a  grease-spot  of  him." 

"You  air  goin'  crazy — who's  him  ?" 

"Uh— nobody,"  said  Uncle  Billy,  and  old 
Hon  turned  with  a  shrug  of  her  shoulders — she 
was  tired  of  all  this  talk  about  the  feud. 

All  that  summer  young  Dave  Tolliver  hung 
around  Lonesome  Cove.  He  would  sit  for  hours 
in  Devil  Judd's  cabin,  rarely  saying  anything  to 
June  or  to  anybody,  though  the  girl  felt  that  she 
hardly  made  a  move  that  he  did  not  see,  and  while 
he  disappeared  when  Hale  came,  after  a  surly 
grunt  of  acknowledgment  to  Hale's  cheerful  greet 
ing,  his  perpetual  espionage  began  to  anger  June. 
Never,  however,  did  he  put  himself  into  words 
until  Hale's  last  visit,  when  the  summer  had 
waned  and  it  was  nearly  time  for  June  to  go  away 
again  to  school.  As  usual,  Dave  had  left  the 
house  when  Hale  came,  and  an  hour  after  Hale 
was  gone  she  went  to  the  little  ravine  with  a  book 
in  her  hand,  and  there  the  boy  was  sitting  on  her 
log,  his  elbows  dug  into  his  legs  midway  between 
thigh  and  knee,  his  chin  in  his  hands,  his  slouched 
hat  over  his  black  eyes — every  line  of  him  pictur 
ing  angry,  sullen  dejection.  She  would  have 

217 


THE  TRAIL  OF  THE  LONESOME  PINE 

slipped  away,  but  he  heard  her  and  lifted  his  head 
and  stared  at  her  without  speaking.  Then  he 
slowly  got  off  the  log  and  sat  down  on  a  moss- 
covered  stone. 

"Scuse  me,"  he  said  with  elaborate  sarcasm. 
"This  bein'  yo'  school-house  over  hyeh,  an'  me 
not  bein'  a  scholar,  I  reckon  I'm  in  your  way." 

"  How  do  you  happen  to  know  hit's  my  school- 
house  ?"  asked  June  quietly. 

"I've  seed  you  hyeh." 

"Jus'asls'posed." 

"You  an'  him." 

:t  Jus'  as  I  s'posed,"  she  repeated,  and  a  spot  of 
red  came  into  each  cheek.  "  But  we  didn't  see 
you."  Young  Dave  laughed. 

"Well,  everybody  don't  always  see  me  when 
I'm  seein'  them." 

"No,"  she  said  unsteadily.  "So,  you've  been 
sneakin'  around  through  the  woods  a-spyin'  on 
me — sneakin'  an9  spyin"  she  repeated  so  sear- 
ingly  that  Dave  looked  at  the  ground  suddenly, 
picked  up  a  pebble  confusedly  and  shot  it  in  the 
water. 

"  I  had  a  mighty  good  reason,"  he  said  doggedly. 

"Ef  he'd  been  up  to  some  of  his  furrin'  tricks " 

June  stamped  the  ground. 

"Don't  you  think  I  kin  take  keer  o'  myself?" 

"No,  I  don't.  I  never  seed  a  gal  that  could — 
with  one  o'  them  furriners." 

"Huh!"  she  said  scornfully.    "You  seem  to  set 
218 


THE  TRAIL  OF  THE  LONESOME  PINE 

a  mighty  big  store  by  the  decency  of  yo'  own  kin." 
Dave  was  silent.  "He  ain't  up  to  no  tricks.  An' 
whut  do  you  reckon  Dad  'ud  be  doin'  while  you 
was  pertecting  me  ?" 

"Air  ye  goin'  away  to  school?"  he  asked  sud 
denly.  June  hesitated. 

"  Well,  seein'  as  hit's  none  o'  yo'  business — I  am." 

"Air  ye  goin'  to  marry  him  ?" 

"He  ain't  axed  me."  The  boy's  face  turned 
red  as  a  flame. 

"Ye  air  honest  with  me,  an'  now  I'm  goin'  to 
be  honest  with  you.  You  hain't  never  goin'  to 
marry  him." 

"Mebbe  you  think  I'm  goin'  to  marry  you." 
A  mist  of  rage  swept  before  the  lad's  eyes  so  that 
he  could  hardly  see,  but  he  repeated  steadily: 

"You  hain't  goin'  to  marry  him."  June  looked 
at  the  boy  long  and  steadily,  but  his  black  eyes 
never  wavered — she  knew  what  he  meant. 

"An'  he  kept  the  Falins  from  killin'  you,"  she 
said,  quivering  with  indignation  at  the  shame  of 
him,  but  Dave  went  on  unheeding: 

"You  pore  little  fool!  Do  ye  reckon  as  how 
he's  ever  goin'  to  axe  ye  to  marry  him  ?  Whut's 
he  sendin'  you  away  fer?  Because  you  hain't 
good  enough  fer  him !  Whar's  yo'  pride  ?  You 
hain't  good  enough  fer  him,"  he  repeated  scath 
ingly.  June  had  grown  calm  now. 

"I  know  it,"  she  said  quietly,  "but  I'm  goin' 
to  try  to  be." 

219 


THE  TRAIL  OF  THE  LONESOME  PINE 

Dave  rose  then  in  impotent  fury  and  pointed 
one  finger  at  her.  His  black  eyes  gleamed  like  a 
demon's  and  his  voice  was  hoarse  with  resolution 
and  rage,  but  it  was  Tolliver  against  Tolliver  now, 
and  June  answered  him  with  contemptuous  fear 
lessness. 

"  You  halnt  never  goin   to  marry  htm." 

"An'  he  kept  the  Falins  from  killin'  ye." 

"Yes,"  he  retorted  savagely  at  last,  "an*  I  kept 
the  Falins  from  killin'  him"  and  he  stalked  away, 
leaving  June  blanched  and  wondering. 

It  was  true.  Only  an  hour  before,  as  Hale 
turned  up  the  mountain  that  very  afternoon  at  the 
mouth  of  Lonesome  Cove,  young  Dave  had  called 
to  him  from  the  bushes  and  stepped  into  the  road. 

"You  air  goin'  to  court  Monday?"  he  said. 

"Yes,"  said  Hale. 

"Well,  you  better  take  another  road  this  time," 
he  said  quietly.  "Three  o'  the  Falins  will  be 
waitin'  in  the  lorrel  somewhar  on  the  road  to  lay- 
way  ye." 

Hale  was  dumfounded,  but  he  knew  the  boy 
spoke  the  truth. 

"Look  here,"  he  said  impulsively,  "I've  got 
nothing  against  you,  and  I  hope  you've  got  noth 
ing  against  me.  I'm  much  obliged — let's  shake 
hands!" 

The  boy  turned  sullenly  away  with  a  dogged 
shake  of  his  head. 

"I  was  beholden  to  you,"  he  said  with  dignity, 
220 


THE  TRAIL  OF  THE  LONESOME  PINE 

"an*  I  warned  you  'bout  them  Falins  to  git  even 
with  you.  We're  quits  now." 

Hale  started  to  speak — to  say  that  the  lad  was 
not  beholden  to  him — that  he  would  as  quickly 
have  protected  a  Falin,  but  it  would  have  only 
made  matters  worse.  Moreover,  he  knew  pre 
cisely  what  Dave  had  against  him,  and  that,  too, 
was  no  matter  for  discussion.  So  he  said  simply 
and  sincerely: 

"I'm  sorry  we  can't  be  friends." 

"No,"  Dave  gritted  out,  "not  this  side  o' 
Heaven— or  Hell." 


221 


XIX 

A  ND  still  farther  into  that  far  silence  about 
•*  ^  which  she  used  to  dream  at  the  base  of  the 
big  Pine,  went  little  June.  At  dusk,  weary  and 
travel-stained,  she  sat  in  the  parlours  of  a  hotel — 
a  great  gray  columned  structure  of  stone.  She 
was  confused  and  bewildered  and  her  head  ached. 
The  journey  had  been  long  and  tiresome.  The 
swift  motion  of  the  train  had  made  her  dizzy  and 
faint.  The  dust  and  smoke  had  almost  stifled  her, 
and  even  now  the  dismal  parlours,  rich  and  won 
derful  as  they  were  to  her  unaccustomed  eyes, 
oppressed  her  deeply.  If  she  could  have  one  more 
breath  of  mountain  air! 

The  day  had  been  too  full  of  wonders.  Impres 
sions  had  crowded  on  her  sensitive  brain  so  thick 
and  fast  that  the  recollection  of  them  was  as 
through  a  haze.  She  had  never  been  on  a  train 
before  and  when,  as  it  crashed  ahead,  she  clutched 
Hale's  arm  in  fear  and  asked  how  they  stopped  it, 
Hale  hearing  the  whistle  blow  for  a  station,  said : 

"  I'll  show  you,"  and  he  waved  one  hand  out  the 
window.  And  he  repeated  this  trick  twice  before 
she  saw  that  it  was  a  joke.  All  day  he  had  soothed 
her  uneasiness  in  some  such  way  and  all  day  he 
watched  her  with  an  amused  smile  that  was  puz- 

222 


THE  TRAIL  OF  THE  LONESOME  PINE 

zling  to  her.  She  remembered  sadly  watching  the 
mountains  dwindle  and  disappear,  and  when  sev 
eral  of  her  own  people  who  were  on  the  train  were 
left  at  way-stations,  it  seemed  as  though  all  links 
that  bound  her  to  her  home  were  broken.  The 
face  of  the  country  changed,  the  people  changed  in 
looks,  manners  and  dress,  and  she  shrank  closer  to 
Hale  with  an  increasing  sense  of  painful  loneli 
ness.  These  level  fields  and  these  farm-houses  so 
strangely  built,  so  varied  in  colour  were  the"set- 
tlemints,"  and  these  people  so  nicely  dressed,  so 
clean  and  fresh-looking  were  "furriners."  At  one 
station  a  crowd  of  school-girls  had  got  on  board  and 
she  had  watched  them  with  keen  interest,  mysti 
fied  by  their  incessant  chatter  and  gayety.  And 
at  last  had  come  the  big  city,  with  more  smoke, 
more  dust,  more  noise,  more  confusion — and  she 
was  in  his  world.  That  was  the  thought  that 
comforted  her — it  was  his  world,  and  now  she  sat 
alone  in  the  dismal  parlours  while  Hale  was  gone 
to  find  his  sister — waiting  and  trembling  at  the 
ordeal,  close  upon  her,  of  meeting  Helen  Hale. 

Below,  Hale  found  his  sister  and  her  maid  reg 
istered,  and  a  few  minutes  later  he  led  Miss  Hale 
into  the  parlour.  As  they  entered  June  rose 
without  advancing,  and  for  a  moment  the  two 
stood  facing  each  other — the  still  roughly  clad, 
primitive  mountain  girl  and  the  exquisite  modern 
woman — in  an  embarrassment  equally  painful  to 
both. 

223 


THE  TRAIL  OF  THE  LONESOME  PINE 

"June,  this  is  my  sister." 

At  a  loss  what  to  do,  Helen  Hale  simply  stretched 
out  her  hand,  but  drawn  by  June's  timidity  and 
the  quick  admiration  and  fear  in  her  eyes,  she 
leaned  suddenly  forward  and  kissed  her.  A  grate 
ful  flush  overspread  the  little  girl's  features  and 
the  pallor  that  instantly  succeeded  went  straight 
way  to  the  sister's  heart. 

"You  are  not  well,"  she  said  quickly  and 
kindly.  "You  must  go  to  your  room  at  once. 
I  am  going  to  take  care  of  you — you  are  my  little 


sister  now." 


June  lost  the  subtlety  in  Miss  Kale's  emphasis, 
but  she  fell  with  instant  submission  under  such 
gentle  authority,  and  though  she  could  say  nothing, 
her  eyes  glistened  and  her  lips  quivered,  and  with 
out  looking  to  Hale,  she  followed  his  sister  out  of 
the  room.  Hale  stood  still.  He  had  watched  the 
meeting  with  apprehension  and  now,  surprised 
and  grateful,  he  went  to  Helen's  parlour  and 
waited  with  a  hopeful  heart.  When  his  sister 
entered,  he  rose  eagerly: 

"Well — "  he  said,  stopping  suddenly,  for  there 
were  tears  of  vexation,  dismay  and  genuine  dis 
tress  on  his  sister's  face. 

"Oh,  Jack,"  she  cried,  "how  could  you! 
How  could  you!" 

Hale  bit  his  lips,  turned  and  paced  the  room. 
He  had  hoped  too  much  and  yet  what  else  could 
he  have  expected  ?  His  sister  and  June  knew  as 

224 


THE  TRAIL  OF  THE  LONESOME  PINE 

little  about  each  other  and  each  other's  lives  as 
though  they  had  occupied  different  planets.  He 
had  forgotten  that  Helen  must  be  shocked  by 
June's  inaccuracies  of  speech  and  in  a  hundred 
other  ways  to  which  he  had  become  accustomed. 
With  him,  moreover,  the  process  had  been  gradual 
and,  moreover,  he  had  seen  beneath  it  all.  And 
yet  he  had  foolishly  expected  Helen  to  understand 
everything  at  once.  He  was  unjust,  so  very  wisely 
he  held  himself  in  silence. 

"Where  is  her  baggage,  Jack?"  Helen  had 
opened  her  trunk  and  was  lifting  out  the  lid. 
"  She  ought  to  change  those  dusty  clothes  at  once. 
You'd  better  ring  and  have  it  sent  right  up." 

"No,"  said  Hale,  "I  will  go  down  and  see 
about  it  myself." 

He  returned  presently — his  face  aflame — with 
June's  carpet-bag. 

"  I  believe  this  is  all  she  has,"  he  said  quietly. 
In  spite  of  herself  Helen's  grief  changed  to  a  fit 
of  helpless  laughter  and,  afraid  to  trust  himself 
further,  Hale  rose  to  leave  the  room.    At  the  door 
he  was  met  by  the  negro  maid. 

"Miss  Helen,"  she  said  with  an  open  smile, 
"Miss  June  say  she  don't  want  nuttin9."  Hale 
gave  her  a  fiery  look  and  hurried  out.  June  was 
seated  at  a  window  when  he  went  into  her  room 
with  her  face  buried  in  her  arms.  She  lifted  her 
head,  dropped  it,  and  he  saw  that  her  eyes  were 
red  with  weeping. 

225 


THE  TRAIL  OF  THE  LONESOME  PINE 

"Are  you  sick,  little  girl?"  he  asked  anxiously. 
June  shook  her  head  helplessly. 

"You  aren't  homesick,  are  you  ?" 

"No."    The  answer  came  very  faintly. 

"Don't  you  like  my  sister?"  The  head  bowed 
an  emphatic  "Yes — yes." 

"Then  what  is  the  matter  ?" 

"Oh,"  she  said  despairingly,  between  her  sobs, 
"she — won't — like — me.  I  never — can — be — like 
her." 

Hale  smiled,  but  her  grief  was  so  sincere  that 
he  leaned  over  her  and  with  a  tender  hand  soothed 
her  into  quiet.  Then  he  went  to  Helen  again  and 
he  found  her  overhauling  dresses. 

"I  brought  along  several  things  of  different 
sizes  and  I  am  going  to  try  at  any  rate.  Oh,"  she 
added  hastily,  "only  of  course  until  she  can  get 
some  clothes  of  her  own." 

"Sure,"  said  Hale,  "but — "  His  sister  waved 
one  hand  and  again  Hale  kept  still. 

June  had  bathed  her  eyes  and  was  lying  down 
when  Helen  entered,  and  she  made  not  the  slight 
est  objection  to  anything  the  latter  proposed. 
Straightway  she  fell  under  as  complete  subjection 
to  her  as  she  had  done  to  Hale.  Without  a  mo 
ment's  hesitation  she  drew  off  her  rudely  fashioned 
dress  and  stood  before  Helen  with  the  utmost  sim 
plicity — her  beautiful  arms  and  throat  bare  and 
her  hair  falling  about  them  with  the  rich  gold  of 
a  cloud  at  an  autumn  sunset.  Dressed,  she  could 

226 


THE  TRAIL  OF  THE  LONESOME  PINE 

hardly  breathe,  but  when  she  looked  at  herself  in 
the  mirror,  she  trembled.  Magic  transformation! 
Apparently  the  chasm  between  the  two  had  been 
bridged  in  a  single  instant.  Helen  herself  was 
astonished  and  again  her  heart  warmed  toward 
the  girl,  when  a  little  later,  she  stood  timidly  under 
Kale's  scrutiny,  eagerly  watching  his  face  and 
flushing  rosy  with  happiness  under  his  brightening 
look.  Her  brother  had  not  exaggerated — the  little 
girl  was  really  beautiful.  When  they  went  down 
to  the  dining-room,  there  was  another  surprise  for 
Helen  Hale,  for  June's  timidity  was  gone  and  to 
the  wonder  of  the  woman,  she  was  clothed  with 
an  impassive  reserve  that  in  herself  would  have 
been  little  less  than  haughtiness  and  was  astound 
ing  in  a  child.  She  saw,  too,  that  the  change  in 
the  girl's  bearing  was  unconscious  and  that  the 
presence  of  strangers  had  caused  it.  It  was  plain 
that  June's  timidity  sprang  from  her  love  of  Hale 
— her  fear  of  not  pleasing  him  and  not  pleasing  her, 
his  sister,  and  plain,  too,  that  remarkable  self- 
poise  was  little  June's  to  command.  At  the  table 
June  kept  her  eyes  fastened  on  Helen  Hale.  Not 
a  movement  escaped  her  and  she  did  nothing  that 
was  not  done  by  one  of  the  others  first.  She  said 
nothing,  but  if  she  had  to  answer  a  question,  she 
spoke  with  such  care  and  precision  that  she  almost 
seemed  to  be  using  a  foreign  language.  Miss 
Hale  smiled  but  with  inward  approval,  and  that 
night  she  was  in  better  spirits. 

227 


THE  TRAIL  OF  THE  LONESOME  PINE 

"Jack,"  she  said,  when  he  came  to  bid  her 
good-night,  "I  think  we'd  better  stay  here  a  few 
days.  I  thought  of  course  you  were  exaggerating, 
but  she  is  very,  very  lovely.  And  that  manner  of 
hers — well,  it  passes  my  understanding.  Just 
leave  everything  to  me." 

Hale  was  very  willing  to  do  that.  He  had  all 
trust  in  his  sister's  judgment,  he  knew  her  dislike 
of  interference,  her  love  of  autocratic  supervision, 
so  he  asked  no  questions,  but  in  grateful  relief 
kissed  her  good-night. 

The  sister  sat  for  a  long  time  at  her  window 
after  he  was  gone.  Her  brother  had  been  long 
away  from  civilization;  he  had  become  infatuated, 
the  girl  loved  him,  he  was  honourable  and  in  his 
heart  he  meant  to  marry  her — that  was  to  her  the 
whole  story.  She  had  been  mortified  by  the  mis 
step,  but  the  misstep  made,  only  one  thought 
had  occurred  to  her — to  help  him  all  she  could. 
She  had  been  appalled  when  she  first  saw  the 
dusty  shrinking  mountain  girl,  but  the  helpless 
ness  and  the  loneliness  of  the  tired  little  face 
touched  her,  and  she  was  straightway  responsive 
to  the  mute  appeal  in  the  dark  eyes  that  were  lifted 
to  her  own  with  such  modest  fear  and  wonder. 
Now  her  surprise  at  her  brother's  infatuation  was 
abating  rapidly.  The  girl's  adoration  of  him,  her 
wild  beauty,  her  strange  winning  personality — as 
rare  and  as  independent  of  birth  and  circum 
stances  as  genius — had  soon  made  that  phenom- 

228 


THE  TRAIL  OF  THE  LONESOME  PINE 

enon  plain.  And  now  what  was  to  be  done  ?  The 
girl  was  quick,  observant,  imitative,  docile,  and  in 
the  presence  of  strangers,  her  gravity  of  manner 
gave  the  impression  of  uncanny  self-possession. 
It  really  seemed  as  though  anything  might  be  pos- 
sible. At  Helen's  suggestion,  then,  the  three 
stayed  where  they  were  for  a  week,  for  June's 
wardrobe  was  sadly  in  need  of  attention.  So  the 
week  was  spent  in  shopping,  driving,  and  walking, 
and  rapidly  as  it  passed  for  Helen  and  Hale  it  was 
to  June  the  longest  of  her  life,  so  filled  was  it  with 
a  thousand  sensations  unfelt  by  them.  The  city 
had  been  stirred  by  the  spirit  of  the  new  South, 
but  the  charm  of  the  old  was  distinct  everywhere. 
Architectural  eccentricities  had  startled  the  sleepy 
maple-shaded  rows  of  comfortable  uniform  dwell- 
ings here  and  there,  and  in  some  streets  the  life 
was  brisk;  but  it  was  still  possible  to  see  pedes- 
trians strolling  with  unconscious  good-humour 
around  piles  of  goods  on  the  sidewalk,  business 
men  stopping  for  a  social  chat  on  the  streets, 
street-cars  moving  independent  of  time,  men  in- 
variably giving  up  their  seats  to  women,  and, 
strangers  or  not,  depositing  their  fare  for  them; 
the  drivers  at  the  courteous  personal  service  of 
each  patron  of  the  road — now  holding  a  car  and 
placidly  whistling  while  some  lady  who  had  sig- 
nalled from  her  doorway  went  back  indoors  for 
some  forgotten  article,  now  twisting  the  reins 
around  the  brakes  and  leaving  a  parcel  in  some 

229 


THE  TRAIL  OF  THE  LONESOME  PINE 

yard — and  no  one  grumbling!  But  what  was  to 
Hale  an  atmosphere  of  amusing  leisure  was  to 
June  bewildering  confusion.  To  her  his  amuse- 
ment was  unintelligible,  but  though  in  constant 
wonder  at  everything  she  saw,  no  one  would  ever 
have  suspected  that  she  was  making  her  first 
acquaintance  with  city  scenes.  At  first  the  calm 
unconcern  of  her  companions  had  puzzled  her. 
She  could  not  understand  how  they  could  walk 
along,  heedless  of  the  wonderful  visions  that 
beckoned  to  her  from  the  shop-windows;  fearless 
of  the  strange  noises  about  them  and  scarcely  no- 
ticing the  great  crowds  of  people,  or  the  strange 
shining  vehicles  that  thronged  the  streets.  But 
she  had  quickly  concluded  that  it  was  one  of  the 
demands  of  that  new  life  to  see  little  and  be  aston- 
ished at  nothing,  and  Helen  and  Hale  surprised  in 
turn  at  her  unconcern,  little  suspected  the  effort 
her  self-suppression  cost  her.  And  when  over  some 
wonder  she  did  lose  herself,  Hale  would  say: 

"Just  wait  till  you  see  New  York!"  and  June 
would  turn  her  dark  eyes  to  Helen  for  confirma- 
tion and  to  see  if  Hale  could  be  joking  with  her. 

"It's  all  true,  June,"  Helen  would  say.  "You 
must  go  there  some  day.  It's  true."  But  that 
town  was  enough  and  too  much  for  June.  Her 
head  buzzed  continuously  and  she  could  hardly 
sleep,  and  she  was  glad  when  one  afternoon  they 
took  her  into  the  country  again — the  Bluegrass 
country — and  to  the  little  town  near  which  Hale 

230 


THE  TRAIL  OF  THE  LONESOME  PINE 

had  been  born,  and  which  was  a  dream-city  to 
June,  and  to  a  school  of  which  an  old  friend  of  his 
mother  was  principal,  and  in  which  Helen  herself 
was  a  temporary  teacher.  And  Rumour  had  gone 
ahead  of  June.  Hale  had  found  her  dashing  about 
the  mountains  on  the  back  of  a  wild  bull,  said 
rumour.  She  was  as  beautiful  as  Europa,  was  of 
pure  English  descent  and  spoke  the  language  of 
Shakespeare — the  Hon.  Sam  Budd's  hand  was 
patent  in  this.  She  had  saved  Hale's  life  from 
moonshiners  and  while  he  was  really  in  love  with 
her,  he  was  pretending  to  educate  her  out  of 
gratitude — and  here  doubtless  was  the  faint 
tracery  of  Miss  Anne  Saunder's  natural  suspi- 
cions. And  there  Hale  left  her  under  the  eye  of 
his  sister — left  her  to  absorb  another  new  life  like 
a  thirsty  plant  and  come  back  to  the  mountains  to 
make  his  head  swim  with  new  witcheries. 


231 


XX 


boom  started  after  its  shadow  through 
the  hills  now,  and  Hale  watched  it  sweep 
toward  him  with  grim  satisfaction  at  the  fulfilment 
of  his  own  prophecy  and  with  disgust  that,  by  the 
irony  of  fate,  it  should  come  from  the  very  quar- 
ters where  years  before  he  had  played  the  mad- 
dening part  of  lunatic  at  large.  The  avalanche 
was  sweeping  southward;  Pennsylvania  was  creep- 
ing down  the  Alleghanies,  emissaries  of  New  York 
capital  were  pouring  into  the  hills,  the  tide-water 
of  Virginia  and  the  Bluegrass  region  of  Kentucky 
were  sending  in  their  best  blood  and  youth,  and 
friends  of  the  helmeted  Englishmen  were  hurry- 
ing over  the  seas.  Eastern  companies  were  taking 
up  principalities,  and  at  Cumberland  Gap,  those 
helmeted  Englishmen  had  acquired  a  kingdom. 
They  were  building  a  town  there,  too,  with  huge 
steel  plants,  broad  avenues  and  business  blocks 
that  would  have  graced  Broadway;  and  they 
were  pouring  out  a  million  for  every  thousand  that 
it  would  have  cost  Hale  to  acquire  the  land  on 
which  the  work  was  going  on.  Moreover  they 
were  doing  it  there,  as  Hale  heard,  because  they 
were  too  late  to  get  control  of  his  gap  through  the 
Cumberland.  At  his  gap,  too,  the  same  movement 

232 


THE  TRAIL  OF  THE  LONESOME  PINE 

was  starting.  In  stage  and  wagon,  on  mule  and 
horse,  "riding  and  tying"  sometimes,  and  even 
afoot  came  the  rush  of  madmen.  Horses  and 
mules  were  drowned  in  the  mud  holes  along  the 
road,  such  was  the  traffic  and  such  were  the 
floods.  The  incomers  slept  eight  in  a  room, 
burned  oil  at  one  dollar  a  gallon,  and  ate  potatoes 
at  ten  cents  apiece.  The  Grand  Central  Hotel 
was  a  humming  Real-Estate  Exchange,  and,  night 
and  day,  the  occupants  of  any  room  could  hear, 
through  the  thin  partitions,  lots  booming  to  right, 
left,  behind  and  in  front  of  them.  The  labour 
and  capital  question  was  instantly  solved,  for 
everybody  became  a  capitalist — carpenter,  brick- 
layer, blacksmith,  singing  teacher  and  preacher. 
There  is  no  difference  between  the  shrewdest 
business  man  and  a  fool  in  a  boom,  for  the  boom 
levels  all  grades  of  intelligence  and  produces  as 
distinct  a  form  of  insanity  as  you  can  find  within 
the  walls  of  an  asylum.  Lots  took  wings  sky- 
ward. Hale  bought  one  for  June  for  thirty  dol- 
lars and  sold  it  for  a  thousand.  Before  the  au- 
tumn was  gone,  he  found  himself  on  the  way  to 
ridiculous  opulence  and,  when  spring  came,  he 
had  the  world  in  a  sling  and,  if  he  wished,  he  could 
toss  it  playfully  at  the  sun  and  have  it  drop  back 
into  his  hand  again.  And  the  boom  spread  down 
the  valley  and  into  the  hills.  The  police  guard  had 
little  to  do  and,  over  in  the  mountains,  the  feud 
miraculously  came  to  a  sudden  close. 

233 


THE  TRAIL  OF  THE  LONESOME  PINE 

So  pervasive,  indeed,  was  the  spirit  of  the  times 
that  the  Hon.  Sam  Budd  actually  got  old  Buck 
Falin  and  old  Dave  Tolliver  to  sign  a  truce,  agree- 
ing to  a  complete  cessation  of  hostilities  until  he 
carried  through  a  land  deal  in  which  both  were 
interested.  And  after  that  was  concluded,  no- 
body had  time,  even  the  Red  Fox,  for  deviltry  and 
private  vengeance — so  busy  was  everybody  pick- 
ing up  the  manna  which  was  dropping  straight 
from  the  clouds.  Hale  bought  all  of  old  Judd's 
land,  formed  a  stock  company  and  in  the  trade 
gave  June  a  bonus  of  the  stock.  Money  was  plenti- 
ful as  grains  of  sand,  and  the  cashier  of  the  bank  in 
the  back  of  the  furniture  store  at  the  Gap  chuckled 
to  his  beardless  directors  as  he  locked  the  wooden 
door  on  the  day  before  the  great  land  sale: 

"Capital  stock  paid  in — thirteen  thousand  dol- 
lars; 

"Deposits — three  hundred  thousand; 

"Loans — two  hundred  and  sixty  thousand — 
interest  from  eight  to  twelve  per  cent."  And, 
beardless  though  those  directors  were,  that  state- 
ment made  them  reel. 

A  club  was  formed  and  the  like  of  it  was  not 
below  Mason  and  Dixon's  line  in  the  way  of  fur- 
niture, periodicals,  liquors  and  cigars.  Poker 
ceased — it  was  too  tame  in  competition  with  this 
new  game  of  town-lots.  On  the  top  of  High  Knob 
a  kingdom  was  bought.  The  young  bloods  of  the 
town  would  build  a  lake  up  there,  run  a  road  up 

234 


THE  TRAIL  OF  THE  LONESOME  PINE 

and  build  a  Swiss  chalet  on  the  very  top  for  a 
country  club.  The  "booming"  editor  was  dis- 
charged. A  new  paper  was  started,  and  the  ex- 
editor  of  a  New  York  Daily  was  got  to  run  it.  If 
anybody  wanted  anything,  he  got  it  from  no  mat- 
ter where,  nor  at  what  cost.  Nor  were  the  arts 
wholly  neglected.  One  man,  who  was  proud  of 
his  voice,  thought  he  would  like  to  take  singing 
lessons.  An  emissary  was  sent  to  Boston  to  bring 
back  the  best  teacher  he  could  find.  The  teacher 
came  with  a  method  of  placing  the  voice  by  trying 
to  say  "Come!"  at  the  base  of  the  nose  and  be- 
tween the  eyes.  This  was  with  the  lips  closed. 
He  charged  two  dollars  per  half  hour  for  this  effort, 
he  had  each  pupil  try  it  twice  for  half  an  hour  each 
day,  and  for  six  weeks  the  town  was  humming  like 
a  beehive.  At  the  end  of  that  period,  the  teacher 
fell  ill  and  went  his  way  with  a  fat  pocket-book 
and  not  a  warbling  soul  had  got  the  chance  to 
open  his  mouth.  The  experience  dampened  no- 
body. Generosity  was  limitless.  It  was  equally 
easy  to  raise  money  for  a  roulette  wheel,  a  cathe- 
dral or  an  expedition  to  Africa.  And  even  yet  the 
railroad  was  miles  away  and  even  yet  in  Feb- 
ruary, the  Improvement  Company  had  a  great 
land  sale.  The  day  before  it,  competing  purchas- 
ers had  deposited  cheques  aggregating  three  times 
the  sum  asked  for  by  the  company  for  the  land. 
So  the  buyers  spent  the  night  organizing  a  pool  to 
keep  down  competition  and  drawing  lots  for  the 

235 


THE  TRAIL  OF  THE  LONESOME  PINE 

privilege  of  bidding.  For  fairness,  the  sale  was  an 
auction,  and  one  old  farmer  who  had  sold  some 
of  the  land  originally  for  a  hundred  dollars  an 
acre,  bought  back  some  of  that  land  at  a  thousand 
dollars  a  lot. 

That  sale  was  the  climax  and,  that  early,  Hale 
got  a  warning  word  from  England,  but  he  paid  no 
heed  even  though,  after  the  sale,  the  boom  slack- 
ened, poised  and  stayed  still;  for  optimism  was 
unquenchable  and  another  tide  would  come  with 
another  sale  in  May,  and  so  the  spring  passed  in 
the  same  joyous  recklessness  and  the  same  perfect 
hope. 

In  April,  the  first  railroad  reached  the  Gap  at 
last,  and  families  came  in  rapidly.  Money  was 
still  plentiful  and  right  royally  was  it  spent,  for 
was  not  just  as  much  more  coming  when  the  sec- 
ond road  arrived  in  May  ?  Life  was  easier,  too — 
supplies  came  from  New  York,  eight  o'clock  din- 
ners were  in  vogue  and  everybody  was  happy. 
Every  man  had  two  or  three  good  horses  and  noth- 
ing to  do.  The  place  was  full  of  visiting  girls. 
They  rode  in  parties  to  High  Knob,  and  the  ring 
of  hoof  and  the  laughter  of  youth  and  maid  made 
every  dusk  resonant  with  joy.  On  Poplar  Hill 
houses  sprang  up  like  magic  and  weddings  came. 
The  passing  stranger  was  stunned  to  find  out  in 
the  wilderness  such  a  spot;  gayety,  prodigal  hos- 
pitality, a  police  force  of  gentlemen — nearly  all  of 
whom  were  college  graduates — and  a  club,  where 

236 


THE  TRAIL  OF  THE  LONESOME  PINE 

poker  flourished  in  the  smoke  of  Havana  cigars, 
and  a  barrel  of  whiskey  stood  in  one  corner  with 
a  faucet  waiting  for  the  turn  of  any  hand.  And 
still  the  foundation  of  the  new  hotel  was  not  started 
and  the  coming  of  the  new  railroad  in  May  did  not 
make  a  marked  change.  For  some  reason  the 
May  sale  was  postponed  by  the  Improvement 
Company,  but  what  did  it  matter?  Perhaps  it 
was  better  to  wait  for  the  fall,  and  so  the  summer 
went  on  unchanged.  Every  man  still  had  a  bank 
account  and  in  the  autumn,  the  boom  would  come 
again.  At  such  a  time  June  came  home  for  her 
vacation,  and  Bob  Berkley  came  back  from  col- 
lege for  his.  All  through  the  school  year  Hale  had 
got  the  best  reports  of  June.  His  sister's  letters 
were  steadily  encouraging.  June  had  been  very 
homesick  for  the  mountains  and  for  Hale  at  first, 
but  the  homesickness  had  quickly  worn  off — ap- 
parently for  both.  She  had  studied  hard,  had  be- 
come a  favourite  among  the  girls,  and  had  held 
her  own  among  them  in  a  surprising  way.  But  it 
was  on  June's  musical  talent  that  Hale's  sister 
always  laid  most  stress,  and  on  her  voice  which, 
she  said,  was  really  unusual.  June  wrote,  too,  at 
longer  and  longer  intervals  and  in  her  letters, 
Hale  could  see  the  progress  she  was  making — the 
change  in  her  handwriting,  the  increasing  for- 
mality of  expression,  and  the  increasing  shrewd- 
ness of  her  comments  on  her  fellow-pupils,  her 
teachers  and  the  life  about  her.  She  did  not 

237 


THE  TRAIL  OF  THE  LONESOME  PINE 

write  home  for  a  reason  Hale  knew,  though  June 
never  mentioned  it — because  there  was  no  one  at 
home  who  could  read  her  letters — but  she  always 
sent  messages  to  her  father  and  Bub  and  to  the 
old  miller  and  old  Hon,  and  Hale  faithfully  deliv- 
ered them  when  he  could. 

From  her  people,  as  Hale  learned  from  his  sis- 
ter, only  one  messenger  had  come  during  the  year 
to  June,  and  he  came  but  once.  One  morning,  a 
tall,  black-haired,  uncouth  young  man,  in  a  slouch 
hat  and  a  Prince  Albert  coat,  had  strode  up  to  the 
school  with  a  big  paper  box  under  his  arm  and 
asked  for  June.  As  he  handed  the  box  to  the 
maid  at  the  door,  it  broke  and  red  apples  burst 
from  it  and  rolled  down  the  steps.  There  was  a 
shriek  of  laughter  from  the  girls,  and  the  young 
man,  flushing  red  as  the  apples,  turned,  without 
giving  his  name,  and  strode  back  with  no  little 
majesty,  looking  neither  to  right  nor  left.  Hale 
knew  and  June  knew  that  the  visitor  was  her 
cousin  Dave,  but  she  never  mentioned  the  incident 
to  him,  though  as  the  end  of  the  session  drew  nigh, 
her  letters  became  more  frequent  and  more  full  of 
messages  to  the  people  in  Lonesome  Cove,  and  she 
seemed  eager  to  get  back  home.  Over  there  about 
this  time,  old  Judd  concluded  suddenly  to  go 
West,  taking  Bud  with  him,  and  when  Hale  wrote 
the  fact,  an  answer  came  from  June  that  showed 
the  blot  of  tears.  However,  she  seemed  none  the 
less  in  a  hurry  to  get  back,  and  when  Hale  met  her 

238 


THE  TRAIL  OF  THE  LONESOME  PINE 

at  the  station,  he  was  startled;  for  she  came  back 
in  dresses  that  were  below  her  shoe-tops,  with  her 
wonderful  hair  massed  in  a  golden  glory  on  the 
top  of  her  head  and  the  little  fairy-cross  dangling 
at  a  woman's  throat.  Her  figure  had  rounded,  her 
voice  had  softened.  She  held  herself  as  straight 
as  a  young  poplar  and  she  walked  the  earth  as 
though  she  had  come  straight  from  Olympus. 
And  still,  in  spite  of  her  new  feathers  and  airs  and 
graces,  there  was  in  her  eye  and  in  her  laugh  and 
in  her  moods  all  the  subtle  wild  charm  of  the  child 
in  Lonesome  Cove.  It  was  fairy-time  for  June 
that  summer,  though  her  father  and  Bud  had 
gone  West,  for  her  step-mother  was  living  with  a 
sister,  the  cabin  in  Lonesome  Cove  was  closed  and 
June  stayed  at  the  Gap,  not  at  the  Widow  Crane's 
boarding-house,  but  with  one  of  Hale's  married 
friends  on  Poplar  Hill.  And  always  was  she, 
young  as  she  was,  one  of  the  merry  parties  of  that 
happy  summer — even  at  the  dances,  for  the  dance, 
too,  June  had  learned.  Moreover  she  had  picked 
up  the  guitar,  and  many  times  when  Hale  had 
been  out  in  the  hills,  he  would  hear  her  silver- 
clear  voice  floating  out  into  the  moonlight  as  he 
made  his  way  toward  Poplar  Hill,  and  he  would 
stop  under  the  beeches  and  listen  with  ears  of 
growing  love  to  the  wonder  of  it  all.  For  it  was 
he  who  was  the  ardent  one  of  the  two  now. 

June  was  no  longer  the  frank,  impulsive  child 
who  stood  at  the  foot  of  the  beech,  doggedly  reck- 

239 


THE  TRAIL  OF  THE  LONESOME  PINE 

less  if  all  the  world  knew  her  love  for  him.  She 
had  taken  flight  to  some  inner  recess  where  it  was 
difficult  for  Hale  to  follow,  and  right  puzzled  he 
was  to  discover  that  he  must  now  win  again  what, 
unasked,  she  had  once  so  freely  given. 

Bob  Berkley,  too,  had  developed  amazingly. 
He  no  longer  said  "Sir"  to  Hale — that  was  bad 
form  at  Harvard — he  called  him  by  his  first  name 
and  looked  him  in  the  eye  as  man  to  man:  just  as 
June — Hale  observed — no  longer  seemed  in  any 
awe  of  Miss  Anne  Saunders  and  to  have  lost  all 
jealousy  of  her,  or  of  anybody  else — so  swiftly  had 
her  instinct  taught  her  she  now  had  nothing  to 
fear.  And  Bob  and  June  seemed  mightily  pleased 
with  each  other,  and  sometimes  Hale,  watching 
them  as  they  galloped  past  him  on  horseback 
laughing  and  bantering,  felt  foolish  to  think  of 
their  perfect  fitness — the  one  for  the  other — and 
the  incongruity  of  himself  in  a  relationship  that 
would  so  naturally  be  theirs.  At  one  thing  he 
wondered:  she  had  made  an  extraordinary  record 
at  school  and  it  seemed  to  him  that  it  was  partly 
through  the  consciousness  that  her  brain  would 
take  care  of  itself  that  she  could  pay  such  heed  to 
what  hitherto  she  had  had  no  chance  to  learn — 
dress,  manners,  deportment  and  speech.  Indeed, 
it  was  curious  that  she  seemed  to  lay  most  stress 
on  the  very  things  to  which  he,  because  of  his  long 
rough  life  in  the  mountains,  was  growing  more  and 
more  indifferent.  It  was  quite  plain  that  Bob, 

240 


THE  TRAIL  OF  THE  LONESOME  PINE 

with  his  extreme  gallantry  of  manner,  his  smart 
clothes,    his    high    ways    and    his    unconquerable 
gayety,  had  supplanted  him  on  the  pedestal  where 
he  had  been  the  year  before,  just  as  somebody, 
somewhere — his  sister,  perhaps — had  supplanted 
Miss  Anne.     Several  times  indeed  June  had  cor- 
rected Hale's  slips  of  tongue  with  mischievous  tri- 
umph, and  once  when  he  came  back  late  from  a 
long  trip  in  the  mountains  and  walked  in  to  din- 
ner without  changing  his  clothes,  Hale  saw  her 
look  from  himself  to  the  immaculate  Bob  with  an 
unconscious  comparison  that  half  amused,   half 
worried  him.     The  truth  was  he  was  building  a 
lovely  Frankenstein  and  from  wondering  what  he 
was  going  to  do  with  it,  he  was  beginning  to  won- 
der now  what  it  might  some  day  do  with  him. 
And  though  he  sometimes  joked  with  Miss  Anne, 
who  had  withdrawn  now  to  the  level  plane  of 
friendship   with    him,    about   the   transformation 
that  was  going  on,  he  worried  in  a  way  that  did 
neither  his  heart  nor  his  brain  good.     Still  he 
fought  both  to  little  purpose  all  that  summer,  and 
it  was  not  till  the  time  was  nigh  when  June  must 
go  away  again,  that  he  spoke  both.     For  Hale's 
sister  was  going  to  marry,  and  it  was  her  advice 
that  he  should  take  June  to  New  York  if  only  for 
the  sake  of  her  music  and  her  voice.     That  very 
day  June  had  for  the  first  time  seen  her  cousin 
Dave.    He  was  on  horseback,  he  had  been  drink- 
ing and  he  pulled  in  and,  without  an  answer  to  her 

241 


THE  TRAIL  OF  THE  LONESOME  PINE 

greeting,  stared  her  over  from  head  to  foot.  Col- 
ouring angrily,  she  started  on  and  then  he  spoke 
thickly  and  with  a  sneer: 

' 'Bout  fryin'  size,  now,  ain't  ye?  I  reckon 
maybe,  if  you  keep  on,  you'll  be  good  enough  fer 
him  in  a  year  or  two  more." 

"I'm  much  obliged  for  those  apples,  Dave," 
said  June  quietly — and  Dave  flushed  a  darker  red 
and  sat  still,  forgetting  to  renew  the  old  threat 
that  was  on  his  tongue. 

But  his  taunt  rankled  in  the  girl — rankled  more 
now  than  when  Dave  first  made  it,  for  she  better 
saw  the  truth  of  it  and  the  hurt  was  the  greater  to 
her  unconquerable  pride  that  kept  her  from  betray- 
ing the  hurt  to  Dave  long  ago,  and  now,  when  he 
was  making  an  old  wound  bleed  afresh.  But  the 
pain  was  with  her  at  dinner  that  night  and  through 
the  evening.  She  avoided  Hale's  eyes  though  she 
knew  that  he  was  watching  her  all  the  time,  and 
her  instinct  told  her  that  something  was  going 
to  happen  that  night  and  what  that  something 
was.  Hale  was  the  last  to  go  and  when  he  called 
to  her  from  the  porch,  she  went  out  trembling 
and  stood  at  the  head  of  the  steps  in  the  moon- 
light. 

"I  love  you,  little  girl,"  he  said  simply,  "and 
I  want  you  to  marry  me  some  day — will  you, 
June?"  She •  was  unsurprised  but  she  flushed 
under  his  hungry  eyes,  and  the  little  cross  throbbed 
at  her  throat. 

242 


THE  TRAIL  OF  THE  LONESOME  PINE 

"Some  day — not  now"  she  thought,  and  then 
with  equal  simplicity:  "Yes,  Jack." 

"And  if  you  should  love  somebody  else  more, 
you'll  tell  me  right  away — won't  you,  June?" 
She  shrank  a  little  and  her  eyes  fell,  but  straight- 
way she  raised  them  steadily: 

"Yes,  Jack." 

"  Thank  you,  little  girl — good-night." 

"Good-night,  Jack." 

Hale  saw  the  little  shrinking  movement  she 
made,  and,  as  he  went  down  the  hill,  he  thought 
she  seemed  to  be  in  a  hurry  to  be  alone,  and  that 
she  had  caught  her  breath  sharply  as  she  turned 
away.  And  brooding  he  walked  the  woods  long 
that  night. 

Only  a  few  days  later,  they  started  for  New 
York  and,  with  all  her  dreaming,  June  had  never 
dreamed  that  the  world  could  be  so  large.  Moun- 
tains and  vast  stretches  of  rolling  hills  and  level 
land  melted  away  from  her  wondering  eyes;  towns 
and  cities  sank  behind  them,  swift  streams  swollen 
by  freshets  were  outstripped  and  left  behind,  dark- 
ness came  on  and,  through  it,  they  still  sped  on. 
Once  during  the  night  she  woke  from  a  troubled 
dream  in  her  berth  and  for  a  moment  she  thought 
she  was  at  home  again.  They  were  running 
through  mountains  again  and  there  they  lay  in  the 
moonlight,  the  great  calm  dark  faces  that  she 
knew  and  loved,  and  she  seemed  to  catch  the  odour 
of  the  earth  and  feel  the  cool  air  on  her  face,  but 

243 


THE  TRAIL  OF  THE  LONESOME  PINE 

there  was  no  pang  of  homesickness  now — she  was 
too  eager  for  the  world  into  which  she  was  going. 
Next  morning  the  air  was  cooler,  the  skies  lower 
and  grayer — the  big  city  was  close  at  hand.  Then 
came  the  water,  shaking  and  sparkling  in  the 
early  light  like  a  great  cauldron  of  quicksilver, 
and  the  wonderful  Brooklyn  Bridge — a  ribbon  of 
twinkling  lights  tossed  out  through  the  mist  from 
the  mighty  city  that  rose  from  that  mist  as  from 
a  fantastic  dream;  then  the  picking  of  a  way 
through  screeching  little  boats  and  noiseless  big 
ones  and  white  bird-like  floating  things  and  then 
they  disappeared  like  two  tiny  grains  in  a  shifting 
human  tide  of  sand.  But  Hale  was  happy  now, 
for  on  that  trip  June  had  come  back  to  herself,  and 
to  him,  once  more — and  now,  awed  but  unafraid, 
eager,  bubbling,  uplooking,  full  of  quaint  ques- 
tions about  everything  she  saw,  she  was  once  more 
sitting  with  affectionate  reverence  at  his  feet. 
When  he  left  her  in  a  great  low  house  that  fronted 
on  the  majestic  Hudson,  June  clung  to  him  with 
tears  and  of  her  own  accord  kissed  him  for  the  first 
time  since  she  had  torn  her  little  playhouse  to 
pieces  at  the  foot  of  the  beech  down  in  the  moun- 
tains far  away.  And  Hale  went  back  with  peace 
in  his  heart,  but  to  trouble  in  the  hills. 

Not  suddenly  did  the  boom  drop  down  there, 
not  like  a  falling  star,  but  on  the  wings  of  hope — 
wings  that  ever  fluttering  upward,  yet  sank  inex- 

244 


THE  TRAIL  OF  THE  LONESOME  PINE 

orably  and  slowly  closed.  The  first  crash  came 
over  the  waters  when  certain  big  men  over  there 
went  to  pieces — men  on  whose  shoulders  rested 
the  colossal  figure  of  progress  that  the  English 
were  carving  from  the  hills  at  Cumberland  Gap. 
Still  nobody  saw  why  a  hurt  to  the  Lion  should 
make  the  Eagle  sore  and  so  the  American  spirit 
at  the  other  gaps  and  all  up  the  Virginia  valleys 
that  skirt  the  Cumberland  held  faithful  and 
dauntless — for  a  while.  But  in  time  as  the  huge 
steel  plants  grew  noiseless,  and  the  flaming  throats 
of  the  furnaces  were  throttled,  a  sympathetic  fire 
of  dissolution  spread  slowly  North  and  South  and 
it  was  plain  only  to  the  wise  outsider  as  merely  a 
matter  of  time  until,  all  up  and  down  the  Cumber- 
land, the  fox  and  the  coon  and  the  quail  could 
come  back  to  their  old  homes  on  corner  lots, 
marked  each  by  a  pathetic  little  whitewashed 
post — a  tombstone  over  the  graves  of  a  myriad  of 
buried  human  hopes.  But  it  was  the  gap  where 
Hale  was  that  died  last  and  hardest — and  of  the 
brave  spirits  there,  his  was  the  last  and  hardest  to 
die. 

In  the  autumn,  while  June  was  in  New  York, 
the  signs  were  sure  but  every  soul  refused  to  see 
them.  Slowly,  however,  the  vexed  question  of 
labour  and  capital  was  born  again,  for  slowly  each 
local  capitalist  went  slowly  back  to  his  own  trade: 
the  blacksmith  to  his  forge,  but  the  carpenter  not 
to  his  plane  nor  the  mason  to  his  brick — there  was 

245 


THE  TRAIL  OF  THE  LONESOME  PINE 

no  more  building  going  on.  The  engineer  took 
up  his  transit,  the  preacher-politician  was  oftener 
in  his  pulpit,  and  the  singing  teacher  started  on 
his  round  of  raucous  do-mi-sol-dos  through  the 
mountains  again.  It  was  curious  to  see  how  each 
man  slowly,  reluctantly  and  perforce  sank  back 
again  to  his  old  occupation — and  the  town,  with 
the  luxuries  of  electricity,  water-works,  bath-tubs 
and  a  street  railway,  was  having  a  hard  fight  for 
the  plain  necessities  of  life.  The  following  spring, 
notes  for  the  second  payment  on  the  lots  that  had 
been  bought  at  the  great  land  sale  fell  due,  and 
but  very  few  were  paid.  As  no  suits  were  brought 
by  the  company,  however,  hope  did  not  quite  die. 
June  did  not  come  home  for  the  summer,  and 
Hale  did  not  encourage  her  to  come — she  visited 
some  of  her  school-mates  in  the  North  and  took 
a  trip  West  to  see  her  father  who  had  gone  out 
there  again  and  bought  a  farm.  In  the  early 
autumn,  Devil  Judd  came  back  to  the  mountains 
and  announced  his  intention  to  leave  them  for 
good.  But  that  autumn,  the  effects  of  the  dead 
boom  became  perceptible  in  the  hills.  There 
were  no  more  coal  lands  bought,  logging  ceased, 
the  factions  were  idle  once  more,  moonshine  stills 
flourished,  quarrelling  started,  and  at  the  county 
seat,  one  Court  day,  Devil  Judd  whipped  three 
Falins  with  his  bare  fists.  In  the  early  spring  a 
Tolliver  was  shot  from  ambush  and  old  Judd  was 
so  furious  at  the  outrage  that  he  openly  announced 

246 


THE  TRAIL  OF  THE  LONESOME  PINE 

that  he  would  stay  at  home  until  he  had  settled 
the  old  scores  for  good.  So  that,  as  the  summer 
came  on,  matters  between  the  Falins  and  the  Tol- 
livers  were  worse  than  they  had  been  for  years  and 
everybody  knew  that,  with  old  Judd  at  the  head 
of  his  clan  again,  the  right  would  be  fought  to  the 
finish.  At  the  Gap,  one  institution  only  had  suf- 
fered in  spirit  not  at  all  and  that  was  the  Volun- 
teer Police  Guard.  Indeed,  as  the  excitement  of 
the  boom  had  died  down,  the  members  of  that 
force,  as  a  vent  for  their  energies,  went  with  more 
enthusiasm  than  ever  into  their  work.  Local  law- 
lessness had  been  subdued  by  this  time,  the  Guard 
had  been  extending  its  work  into  the  hills,  and  it 
was  only  a  question  of  time  until  it  must  take  a 
part  in  the  Falin-Tolliver  troubles.  Indeed,  that 
time,  Hale  believed,  was  not  far  away,  for  Election 
Day  was  at  hand,  and  always  on  that  day  the 
feudists  came  to  the  Gap  in  a  search  for  trouble. 
Meanwhile,  not  long  afterward,  there  was  a  pitched 
battle  between  the  factions  at  the  county  seat,  and 
several  of  each  would  fight  no  more.  Next  day 
a  Falin  whistled  a  bullet  through  Devil  Judd's 
beard  from  ambush,  and  it  was  at  such  a  crisis  of 
all  the  warring  elements  in  her  mountain  life  that 
June's  school-days  were  coming  to  a  close.  Hale 
had  had  a  frank  talk  with  old  Judd  and  the  old 
man  agreed  that  the  two  had  best  be  married  at 
once  and  live  at  the  Gap  until  things  were  quieter 
in  the  mountains,  though  the  old  man  still  clung 

247 


THE  TRAIL  OF  THE  LONESOME  PINE 

to  his  resolution  to  go  West  for  good  when  he  was 
done  with  the  Falins.  At  such  a  time,  then,  June 
was  coming  home. 


248 


XXI 

TLTALE  was  beyond  Black  Mountain  when  her 
•*•  letter  reached  him.  His  work  over  there 
had  to  be  finished  and  so  he  kept  in  his  saddle  the 
greater  part  of  two  days  and  nights  and  on  the 
third  day  rode  his  big  black  horse  forty  miles  in 
little  more  than  half  a  day  that  he  might  meet  her 
at  the  train.  The  last  two  years  had  wrought 
their  change  in  him.  Deterioration  is  easy  in  the 
hills — superficial  deterioration  in  habits,  manners, 
personal  appearance  and  the  practices  of  all  the 
little  niceties  of  life.  The  morning  bath  is  impos- 
sible because  of  the  crowded  domestic  conditions 
of  a  mountain  cabin  and,  if  possible,  might  if  prac- 
tised, excite  wonder  and  comment,  if  not  vague 
suspicion.  Sleeping  garments  are  practically 
barred  for  the  same  reason.  Shaving  becomes  a 
rare  luxury.  A  lost  tooth-brush  may  not  be  re- 
placed for  a  month.  In  time  one  may  bring  him- 
self to  eat  with  a  knife  for  the  reason  that  it  is 
hard  for  a  hungry  man  to  feed  himself  with  a  fork 
that  has  but  two  tines.  The  finger  tips  cease  to 
be  the  culminating  standard  of  the  gentleman.  It 
is  hard  to  keep  a  supply  of  fresh  linen  when  one  is 
constantly  in  the  saddle,  and  a  constant  weariness 

249 


THE  TRAIL  OF  THE  LONESOME  PINE 

of  body  and  a  ravenous  appetite  make  a  man  in- 
different to  things  like  a  bad  bed  and  worse  food, 
particularly  as  he  must  philosophically  put  up 
with  them,  anyhow.  Of  all  these  things  the  man 
himself  may  be  quite  unconscious  and  yet  they 
affect  him  more  deeply  than  he  knows  and  show 
to  a  woman  even  in  his  voice,  his  walk,  his  mouth 
— everywhere  save  in  his  eyes,  which  change  only 
in  severity,  or  in  kindliness  or  when  there  has  been 
some  serious  break-down  of  soul  or  character 
within.  And  the  woman  will  not  look  to  his  eyes 
for  the  truth — which  makes  its  way  slowly — par- 
ticularly when  the  woman  has  striven  for  the  very 
things  that  the  man  has  so  recklessly  let  go.  She 
would  never  suffer  herself  to  let  down  in  such  a 
way  and  she  does  not  understand  how  a  man  can. 
Hale's  life,  since  his  college  doors  had  closed 
behind  him,  had  always  been  a  rough  one.  He 
had  dropped  from  civilization  and  had  gone  back 
into  it  many  times.  And  each  time  he  had  dropped, 
he  dropped  the  deeper,  and  for  that  reason  had 
come  back  into  his  own  life  each  time  with  more 
difficulty  and  with  more  indifference.  The  last 
had  been  his  roughest  year  and  he  had  sunk  a  little 
more  deeply  just  at  the  time  when  June  had  been 
pluming  herself  for  flight  from  such  depths  for- 
ever. Moreover,  Hale  had  been  dominant  in 
every  matter  that  his  hand  or  his  brain  had 
touched.  His  habit  had  been  to  say  "do  this"  and 
it  was  done.  Though  he  was  no  longer  acting  cap- 

250 


THE  TRAIL  OF  THE  LONESOME  PINE 

tain  of  the  Police  Guard,  he  always  acted  as  cap- 
tain whenever  he  was  on  hand,  and  always  he  was 
the  undisputed  leader  in  all  questions  of  business, 
politics  or  the  maintenance  of  order  and  law.  The 
success  he  had  forged  had  hardened  and  strength- 
ened his  mouth,  steeled  his  eyes  and  made  him 
more  masterful  in  manner,  speech  and  point  of 
view,  and  naturally  had  added  nothing  to  his  gen- 
tleness, his  unselfishness,  his  refinement  or  the  nice 
consideration  of  little  things  on  which  women  lay 
such  stress.  It  was  an  hour  by  sun  when  he  clat- 
tered through  the  gap  and  pushed  his  tired  black 
horse  into  a  gallop  across  the  valley  toward  the 
town.  He  saw  the  smoke  of  the  little  dummy  and, 
as  he  thundered  over  the  bridge  of  the  North  Fork, 
he  saw  that  it  was  just  about  to  pull  out  and  he 
waved  his  hat  and  shouted  imperiously  for  it  to 
wait.  With  his  hand  on  the  bell-rope,  the  con- 
ductor, autocrat  that  he,  too,  was,  did  wait  and 
Hale  threw  his  reins  to  the  man  who  was  nearest, 
hardly  seeing  who  he  was,  and  climbed  aboard. 
He  wore  a  slouched  hat  spotted  by  contact  with 
the  roof  of  the  mines  which  he  had  hastily  visited 
on  his  way  through  Lonesome  Cove.  The  growth 
of  three  days'  beard  was  on  his  face.  He  wore  a 
gray  woollen  shirt,  and  a  blue  handkerchief — none 
too  clean — was  loosely  tied  about  his  sun-scorched 
column  of  a  throat;  he  was  spotted  with  mud  from 
his  waist  to  the  soles  of  his  rough  riding  boots  and 
his  hands  were  rough  and  grimy.  But  his  eye  was 

251 


THE  TRAIL  OF  THE  LONESOME  PINE 

bright  and  keen  and  his  heart  thumped  eagerly. 
Again  it  was  the  middle  of  June  and  the  town  was 
a  naked  island  in  a  sea  of  leaves  whose  breakers 
literally  had  run  mountain  high  and  stopped  for 
all  time  motionless.  Purple  lights  thick  as  mist 
veiled  Powell's  Mountain.  Below,  the  valley  was 
still  flooded  with  yellow  sunlight  which  lay  along 
the  mountain  sides  and  was  streaked  here  and 
there  with  the  long  shadow  of  a  deep  ravine.  The 
beech  trunks  on  Imboden  Hill  gleamed  in  it  like 
white  bodies  scantily  draped  with  green,  and  the 
yawning  Gap  held  the  yellow  light  as  a  bowl  holds 
wine.  He  had  long  ago  come  to  look  upon  the 
hills  merely  as  storehouses  for  iron  and  coal,  put 
there  for  his  special  purpose,  but  now  the  long 
submerged  sense  of  the  beauty  of  it  all  stirred 
within  him  again,  for  June  was  the  incarnate  spirit 
of  it  all  and  June  was  coming  back  to  those 
mountains  and — to  him. 


And  June — June  had  seen  the  change  in  Hale. 
The  first  year  he  had  come  often  to  New  York  to 
see  her  and  they  had  gone  to  the  theatre  and  the 
opera,  and  June  was  pleased  to  play  the  part  of 
heroine  in  what  was  such  a  real  romance  to  the 
other  girls  in  school  and  she  was  proud  of  Hale. 
But  each  time  he  came,  he  seemed  less  interested 
in  the  diversions  that  meant  so  much  to  her,  more 
absorbed  in  his  affairs  in  the  mountains  and  less 

252 


THE  TRAIL  OF  THE  LONESOME  PINE 

particular  about  his  looks.  His  visits  came  at 
longer  intervals,  with  each  visit  he  stayed  less  long, 
and  each  time  he  seemed  more  eager  to  get  away. 
She  had  been  shy  about  appearing  before  him  for 
the  first  time  in  evening  dress,  and  when  he  entered 
the  drawing-room  she  stood  under  a  chandelier  in 
blushing  and  resplendent  confusion,  but  he  seemed 
not  to  recognize  that  he  had  never  seen  her  that 
way  before,  and  for  another  reason  June  remained 
confused,  disappointed  and  hurt,  for  he  was  not 
only  unobserving,  and  seemingly  unappreciative, 
but  he  was  more  silent  than  ever  that  night  and 
he  looked  gloomy.  But  if  he  had  grown  accus- 
tomed to  her  beauty,  there  were  others  who  had 
not,  and  smart,  dapper  college  youths  gathered 
about  her  like  bees  around  a  flower — a  trium- 
phant fact  to  which  he  also  seemed  indifferent. 
Moreover,  he  was  not  in  evening  clothes  that 
night  and  she  did  not  know  whether  he  had  for- 
gotten or  was  indifferent  to  them,  and  the  con- 
trast that  he  was  made  her  that  night  almost 
ashamed  for  him.  She  never  guessed  what  the 
matter  was,  for  Hale  kept  his  troubles  to  himself. 
He  was  always  gentle  and  kind,  he  was  as  lavish 
with  her  as  though  he  were  a  king,  and  she  was 
as  lavish  and  prodigally  generous  as  though  she 
were  a  princess.  There  seemed  no  limit  to  the 
wizard  income  from  the  investments  that  Hale 
had  made  for  her  when,  as  he  said,  he  sold  a  part 
of  her  stock  in  the  Lonesome  Cove  mine,  and 

253 


THE  TRAIL  OF  THE  LONESOME  PINE 

what  she  wanted  Hale  always  sent  her  without 
question.  Only,  as  the  end  was  coming  on  at  the 
Gap,  he  wrote  once  to  know  if  a  certain  amount 
would  carry  her  through  until  she  was  ready  to 
come  home,  but  even  that  question  aroused  no 
suspicion  in  thoughtless  June.  And  then  that  last 
year  he  had  come  no  more — always,  always  he  was 
too  busy.  Not  even  on  her  triumphal  night  at  the 
end  of  the  session  was  he  there,  when  she  had 
stood  before  the  guests  and  patrons  of  the  school 
like  a  goddess,  and  had  thrilled  them  into  startling 
applause,  her  teachers  into  open  glowing  pride, 
the  other  girls  into  bright-eyed  envy  and  herself 
into  still  another  new  world.  Now  she  was  going 
home  and  she  was  glad  to  go. 

She  had  awakened  that  morning  with  the  keen 
air  of  the  mountains  in  her  nostrils — the  air  she 
had  breathed  in  when  she  was  born,  and  her  eyes 
shone  happily  when  she  saw  through  her  window 
the  loved  blue  hills  along  which  raced  the  train. 
They  were  only  a  little  way  from  the  town  where 
she  must  change,  the  porter  said;  she  had  over- 
slept and  she  had  no  time  even  to  wash  her  face 
and  hands,  and  that  worried  her  a  good  deal.  The 
porter  nearly  lost  his  equilibrium  when  she  gave 
him  half  a  dollar — for  women  are  not  profuse  in 
the  way  of  tipping — and  instead  of  putting  her 
bag  down  on  the  station  platform,  he  held  it  in  his 
hand  waiting  to  do  her  further  service.  At  the 
head  of  the  steps  she  searched  about  for  Hale  and 

254 


THE  TRAIL  OF  THE  LONESOME  PINE 

her  lovely  face  looked  vexed  and  a  little  hurt  when 
she  did  not  see  him. 

"Hotel,  Miss  ?"  said  the  porter. 

"Yes,  please,  Harvey!"  she  called. 

An  astonished  darky  sprang  from  the  line  of 
calling  hotel-porters  and  took  her  bag.  Then  every 
tooth  in  his  head  flashed. 

"  Lordy,  Miss  June — I  never  knowed  you  at  all." 

June  smiled — it  was  the  tribute  she  was  looking 
for. 

"Have  you  seen  Mr.  Hale?" 

"No'm.  Mr.  Hale  ain't  been  here  for  mos'  six 
months.  I  reckon  he  aint  in  this  country  now. 
I  aint  heard  nothin'  'bout  him  for  a  long  time." 

June  knew  better  than  that — but  she  said  noth- 
ing. She  would  rather  have  had  even  Harvey 
think  that  he  was  away.  So  she  hurried  to  the 
hotel — she  would  have  four  hours  to  wait — and 
asked  for  the  one  room  that  had  a  bath  attached — 
the  room  to  which  Hale  had  sent  her  when  she 
had  passed  through  on  her  way  to  New  York. 
She  almost  winced  when  she  looked  in  the  mirror 
and  saw  the  smoke  stains  about  her  pretty  throat 
and  ears,  and  she  wondered  if  anybody  could  have 
noticed  them  on  her  way  from  the  train.  Her 
hands,  too,  were  dreadful  to  look  at  and  she  hurried 
to  take  off  her  things. 

In  an  hour  she  emerged  freshened,  immaculate 
from  her  crown  of  lovely  hair  to  her  smartly  booted 
feet,  and  at  once  she  went  downstairs.  She  heard 

255 


THE  TRAIL  OF  THE  LONESOME  PINE 

the  man,  whom  she  passed,  stop  at  the  head  of 
them  and  turn  to  look  down  at  her,  and  she  saw 
necks  craned  within  the  hotel  office  when  she 
passed  the  door.  On  the  street  not  a  man  and 
hardly  a  woman  failed  to  look  at  her  with  wonder 
and  open  admiration,  for  she  was  an  apparition  in 
that  little  town  and  it  all  pleased  her  so  much  that 
she  became  flushed  and  conscious  and  felt  like  a 
queen  who,  unknown,  moved  among  her  subjects 
and  blessed  them  just  with  her  gracious  presence. 
For  she  was  unknown  even  by  several  people 
whom  she  knew  and  that,  too,  pleased  her — to 
have  bloomed  so  quite  beyond  their  ken.  She  was 
like  a  meteor  coming  back  to  dazzle  the  very  world 
from  which  it  had  flown  for  a  while  into  space. 
When  she  went  into  the  dining-room  for  the  mid- 
day dinner,  there  was  a  movement  in  almost  every 
part  of  the  room  as  though  there  were  many  there 
who  were  on  the  lookout  for  her  entrance,  The 
head  waiter,  a  portly  darky,  lost  his  imperturbable 
majesty  for  a  moment  in  surprise  at  the  vision 
and  then  with  a  lordly  yet  obsequious  wave  of  his 
hand,  led  her  to  a  table  over  in  a  corner  where  no 
one  was  sitting.  Four  young  men  came  in  rather 
boisterously  and  made  for  her  table.  She  lifted  her 
calm  eyes  at  them  so  haughtily  that  the  one  in 
front  halted  with  sudden  embarrassment  and 
they  all  swerved  to  another  table  from  which  they 
stared  at  her  surreptitiously.  Perhaps  she  was 
mistaken  for  the  comic-opera  star  whose  brilliant 

256 


THE  TRAIL  OF  THE  LONESOME  PINE 

picture  she  had  seen  on  a  bill  board  in  front  of 
the  "opera  house."  Well,  she  had  the  voice  and 
she  might  have  been  and  she  might  yet  be — and 
if  she  were,  this  would  be  the  distinction  that 
would  be  shown  her.  And,  still  as  it  was  she  was 
greatly  pleased. 

At  four  o'clock  she  started  for  the  hills.  In  half 
an  hour  she  was  dropping  down  a  winding  ravine 
along  a  rock-lashing  stream  with  those  hills  so 
close  to  the  car  on  either  side  that  only  now  and 
then  could  she  see  the  tops  of  them.  Through  the 
window  the  keen  air  came  from  the  very  lungs  of 
them,  freighted  with  the  coolness  of  shadows,  the 
scent  of  damp  earth  and  the  faint  fragrance  of 
wild  flowers,  and  her  soul  leaped  to  meet  them. 
The  mountain  sides  were  showered  with  pink  and 
white  laurel  (she  used  to  call  it  "ivy")  and  the 
rhododendrons  (she  used  to  call  them  "laurel") 
were  just  beginning  to  blossom — they  were  her 
old  and  fast  friends — mountain,  shadow,  the  wet 
earth  and  its  pure  breath,  and  tree,  plant  and 
flower;  she  had  not  forgotten  them,  and  it  was 
good  to  come  back  to  them.  Once  she  saw  an 
overshot  water-wheel  on  the  bank  of  the  rushing 
little  stream  and  she  thought  of  Uncle  Billy;  she 
smiled  and  the  smile  stopped  short — she  was  going 
back  to  other  things  as  well.  The  train  had 
creaked  by  a  log-cabin  set  in  the  hillside  and 
then  past  another  and  another;  and  always  there 
were  two  or  three  ragged  children  in  the  door  and 

257 


THE  TRAIL  OF  THE  LONESOME  PINE 

a  haggard  unkempt  woman  peering  over  their 
shoulders.  How  lonely  those  cabins  looked  and 
how  desolate  the  life  they  suggested  to  her  now — 
now!  The  first  station  she  came  to  after  the  train 
had  wound  down  the  long  ravine  to  the  valley 
level  again  was  crowded  with  mountaineers. 
There  a  wedding  party  got  aboard  with  a  great 
deal  of  laughter,  chaffing  and  noise,  and  all  three 
went  on  within  and  without  the  train  while  it  was 
waiting.  A  sudden  thought  stunned  her  like  a 
lightning  stroke.  They  were  her  people  out  there 
on  the  platform  and  inside  the  car  ahead — those 
rough  men  in  slouch  hats,  jeans  and  cowhide  boots, 
their  mouths  stained  with  tobacco  juice,  their 
cheeks  and  eyes  on  fire  with  moonshine,  and  those 
women  in  poke-bonnets  with  their  sad,  worn,  patient 
faces  on  which  the  sympathetic  good  cheer  and 
joy  of  the  moment  sat  so  strangely.  She  noticed 
their  rough  shoes  and  their  homespun  gowns  that 
made  their  figures  all  alike  and  shapeless,  with  a 
vivid  awakening  of  early  memories.  She  might 
have  been  one  of  those  narrow-lived  girls  outside, 
or  that  bride  within  had  it  not  been  for  Jack — 
Hale.  She  finished  the  name  in  her  own  mind  and 
she  was  conscious  that  she  had.  Ah,  well,  that 
was  a  long  time  ago  and  she  was  nothing  but  a  child 
and  she  had  thrown  herself  at  his  head.  Perhaps 
it  was  different  with  him  now  and  if  it  was,  she 
would  give  him  the  chance  to  withdraw  from 
everything.  It  would  be  right  and  fair  and  then 

258 


THE  TRAIL  OF  THE  LONESOME  PINE 

life  was  so  full  for  her  now.  She  was  dependent  on 
nobody — on  nothing.  A  rainbow  spanned  the 
heaven  above  her  and  the  other  end  of  it  was  not 
in  the  hills.  But  one  end  was  and  to  that  end  she 
was  on  her  way.  She  was  going  to  just  such  peo- 
ple as  she  had  seen  at  the  station.  Her  father  and 
her  kinsmen  were  just  such  men — her  step-mother 
and  kinswomen  were  just  such  women.  Her  home 
was  little  more  than  just  such  a  cabin  as  the  deso- 
late ones  that  stirred  her  pity  when  she  swept  by 
them.  She  thought  of  how  she  felt  when  she  had 
first  gone  to  Lonesome  Cove  after  a  few  months  at 
the  Gap,  and  she  shuddered  to  think  how  she 
would  feel  now.  She  was  getting  restless  by  this 
time  and  aimlessly  she  got  up  and  walked  to  the  front 
of  the  car  and  back  again  to  her  seat,  hardly  notic- 
ing that  the  other  occupants  were  staring  at  her 
with  some  wonder.  She  sat  down  for  a  few  min- 
utes and  then  she  went  to  the  rear  and  stood  out- 
side on  the  platform,  clutching  a  brass  rod  of  the 
railing  and  looking  back  on  the  dropping  darkness 
in  which  the  hills  seemed  to  be  rushing  together 
far  behind  as  the  train  crashed  on  with  its  wake  of 
spark-lit  rolling  smoke.  A  cinder  stung  her  face, 
and  when  she  lifted  her  hand  to  the  spot,  she  saw 
that  her  glove  was  black  with  grime.  With  a  little 
shiver  of  disgust  she  went  back  to  her  seat  and 
with  her  face  to  the  blackness  rushing  past  her 
window  she  sat  brooding — brooding.  Why  had 
Hale  not  met  her  ?  He  had  said  he  would  and  she 

259 


THE  TRAIL  OF  THE  LONESOME  PINE 

had  written  him  when  she  was  coming  and  had 
telegraphed  him  at  the  station  in  New  York  when 
she  started.  Perhaps  he  had  changed.  She  re- 
called that  even  his  letters  had  grown  less  fre- 
quent, shorter,  more  hurried  the  past  year — well, 
he  should  have  his  chance.  Always,  however,  her 
mind  kept  going  back  to  the  people  at  the  station 
and  to  her  people  in  the  mountains.  They  were 
the  same,  she  kept  repeating  to  herself — the  very 
same  and  she  was  one  of  them.  And  always  she 
kept  thinking  of  her  first  trip  to  Lonesome  Cove 
after  her  awakening  and  of  what  her  next  would 
be.  That  first  time  Hale  had  made  her  go  back 
as  she  had  left,  in  home-spun,  sun-bonnet  and  bro- 
gans.  There  was  the  same  reason  why  she  should 
go  back  that  way  now  as  then — would  Hale  insist 
that  she  should  now  ?  She  almost  laughed  aloud 
at  the  thought.  She  knew  that  she  would  refuse 
and  she  knew  that  his  reason  would  not  appeal  to 
her  now — she  no  longer  cared  what  her  neigh- 
bours and  kinspeople  might  think  and  say.  The 
porter  paused  at  her  seat. 

"How  much  longer  is  it  ?"  she  asked. 

"Half  an  hour,  Miss." 

June  went  to  wash  her  face  and  hands,  and 
when  she  came  back  to  her  seat  a  great  glare  shone 
through  the  windows  on  the  other  side  of  the  car. 
It  was  the  furnace,  a  "run"  was  on  and  she  could 
see  the  streams  of  white  molten  metal  racing  down 
the  narrow  channels  of  sand  to  their  narrow  beds 

260 


:June!"  he  cried  in  amazement. 


THE  TRAIL  OF  THE  LONESOME  PINE 

on  either  side.  The  whistle  shrieked  ahead  for 
the  Gap  and  she  nerved  herself  with  a  prophetic 
sense  of  vague  trouble  at  hand. 

At  the  station  Hale  had  paced  the  platform. 
He  looked  at  his  watch  to  see  whether  he  might 
have  time  to  run  up  to  the  furnace,  half  a  mile  away, 
and  board  the  train  there.  He  thought  he  had 
and  he  was  about  to  start  when  the  shriek  of  the 
coming  engine  rose  beyond  the  low  hills  in  Wild 
Cat  Valley,  echoed  along  Powell's  Mountain  and 
broke  against  the  wrinkled  breast  of  the  Cumber- 
land. On  it  came,  and  in  plain  sight  it  stopped 
suddenly  to  take  water,  and  Hale  cursed  it  silently 
and  recalled  viciously  that  when  he  was  in  a  hurry 
to  arrive  anywhere,  the  water-tower  was  always 
on  the  wrong  side  of  the  station.  He  got  so  rest- 
less that  he  started  for  it  on  a  run  and  he  had  gone 
hardly  fifty  yards  before  the  train  came  on  again 
and  he  had  to  run  back  to  beat  it  to  the  station — 
where  he  sprang  to  the  steps  of  the  Pullman  before 
it  stopped — pushing  the  porter  aside  to  find  him- 
self checked  by  the  crowded  passengers  at  the  door. 
June  was  not  among  them  and  straightway  he  ran 
for  the  rear  of  the  car. 

June  had  risen.  The  other  occupants  of  the  car 
had  crowded  forward  and  she  was  the  last  of  them. 
She  had  stood,  during  an  irritating  wait,  at  the 
water-tower,  and  now  as  she  moved  slowly  forward 
again  she  heard  the  hurry  of  feet  behind  her  and 

261 


THE  TRAIL  OF  THE  LONESOME  PINE 

she  turned  to  look  into  the  eager,  wondering  eyes 
of  John  Hale. 

"June!"  he  cried  in  amazement,  but  his  face 
lighted  with  joy  and  he  impulsively  stretched  out 
his  arms  as  though  he  meant  to  take  her  in  them, 
but  as  suddenly  he  dropped  them  before  the 
startled  look  in  her  eyes,  which,  with  one  swift 
glance,  searched  him  from  head  to  foot.  They 
shook  hands  almost  gravely. 


262 


XXII 

TUNE  sat  in  the  little  dummy,  the  focus  of 
**  curious  eyes,  while  Hale  was  busy  seeing  that 
her  baggage  was  got  aboard.  The  checks  that 
she  gave  him  jingled  in  his  hands  like  a  bunch  of 
keys,  and  he  could  hardly  help  grinning  when  he 
saw  the  huge  trunks  and  the  smart  bags  that  were 
tumbled  from  the  baggage  car — all  marked  with 
her  initials.  There  had  been  days  when  he  had 
laid  considerable  emphasis  on  pieces  like  those, 
and  when  he  thought  of  them  overwhelming  with 
opulent  suggestions  that  debt-stricken  little  town, 
and,  later,  piled  incongruously  on  the  porch  of  the 
cabin  on  Lonesome  Cove,  he  could  have  laughed 
aloud  but  for  a  nameless  something  that  was 
gnawing  savagely  at  his  heart. 

He  felt  almost  shy  when  he  went  back  into  the 
car,  and  though  June  greeted  him  with  a  smile, 
her  immaculate  daintiness  made  him  uncon- 
sciously sit  quite  far  away  from  her.  The  little 
fairy-cross  was  still  at  her  throat,  but  a  tiny  dia- 
mond gleamed  from  each  end  of  it  and  from  the 
centre,  as  from  a  tiny  heart,  pulsated  the  light  of  a 
little  blood-red  ruby.  To  him  it  meant  the  loss  of 
June's  simplicity  and  was  the  symbol  of  her  new 
estate,  but  he  smiled  and  forced  himself  into  hearty 

263 


THE  TRAIL  OF  THE  LONESOME  PINE 

cheerfulness  of  manner  and  asked  her  questions 
about  her  trip.  But  June  answered  in  halting 
monosyllables,  and  talk  was  not  easy  between 
them.  All  the  while  he  was  watching  her  closely 
and  not  a  movement  of  her  eye,  ear,  mouth  or 
hand — not  an  inflection  of  her  voice — escaped  him. 
He  saw  her  sweep  the  car  and  its  occupants  with 
a  glance,  and  he  saw  the  results  of  that  glance  in 
her  face  and  the  down-dropping  of  her  eyes  to  the 
dainty  point  of  one  boot.  He  saw  her  beautiful 
mouth  close  suddenly  tight  and  her  thin  nostrils 
quiver  disdainfully  when  a  swirl  of  black  smoke, 
heavy  with  cinders,  came  in  with  an  entering  pas- 
senger through  the  front  door  of  the  car.  Two 
half-drunken  men  were  laughing  boisterously  near 
that  door  and  even  her  ears  seemed  trying  to  shut 
out  their  half-smothered  rough  talk.  The  car 
started  with  a  bump  that  swayed  her  toward  him, 
and  when  she  caught  the  seat  with  one  hand,  it 
checked  as  suddenly,  throwing  her  the  other  way, 
and  then  with  a  leap  it  sprang  ahead  again,  giving 
a  nagging  snap  to  her  head.  Her  whole  face  grew 
red  with  vexation  and  shrinking  distaste,  and  all 
the  while,  when  the  little  train  steadied  into  its 
creaking,  puffing,  jostling  way,  one  gloved  hand 
on  the  chased  silver  handle  of  her  smart  little  um- 
brella kept  nervously  swaying  it  to  and  fro  on  its 
steel-shod  point,  until  she  saw  that  the  point  was 
in  a  tiny  pool  of  tobacco  juice,  and  then  she  laid 
it  across  her  lap  with  shuddering  swiftness. 

264 


THE  TRAIL  OF  THE  LONESOME  PINE 

At  first  Hale  thought  that  she  had  shrunk  from 
kissing  him  in  the  car  because  other  people  were 
around.  He  knew  better  now.  At  that  moment 
he  was  as  rough  and  dirty  as  the  chain-carrier  op- 
posite him,  who  was  just  in  from  a  surveying  ex- 
pedition in  the  mountains,  as  the  sooty  brakeman 
who  came  through  to  gather  up  the  fares — as  one 
of  those  good-natured,  profane  inebriates  up  in 
the  corner.  No,  it  was  not  publicity — she  had 
shrunk  from  him  as  she  was  shrinking  now  from 
black  smoke,  rough  men,  the  shaking  of  the  train 
— the  little  pool  of  tobacco  juice  at  her  feet.  The 
truth  began  to  glimmer  through  his  brain.  He 
understood,  even  when  she  leaned  forward  sud- 
denly to  look  into  the  mouth  of  the  gap,  that  was 
now  dark  with  shadows.  Through  that  gap  lay 
her  way  and  she  thought  him  now  more  a  part  of 
what  was  beyond  than  she  who  had  been  born  of 
it  was,  and  dazed  by  the  thought,  he  wondered  if 
he  might  not  really  be.  At  once  he  straightened 
in  his  seat,  and  his  mind  made  up,  as  he  always 
made  it  up — swiftly.  He  had  not  explained  why 
he  had  not  met  her  that  morning,  nor  had  he 
apologized  for  his  rough  garb,  because  he  was  so 
glad  to  see  her  and  because  there  were  so  many 
other  things  he  wanted  to  say;  and  when  he  saw 
her,  conscious  and  resentful,  perhaps,  that  he  had 
not  done  these  things  at  once — he  deliberately  de- 
clined to  do  them  now.  He  became  silent,  but  he 
grew  more  courteous,  more  thoughtful — watchful. 

265 


THE  TRAIL  OF  THE  LONESOME  PINE 

She  was  very  tired,  poor  child;  there  were  deep 
shadows  under  her  eyes  which  looked  weary  and 
almost  mournful.  So,  when  with  a  clanging  of  the 
engine  bell  they  stopped  at  the  brilliantly  lit  hotel, 
he  led  her  at  once  upstairs  to  the  parlour,  and 
from  there  sent  her  up  to  her  room,  which  was 
ready  for  her. 

"You  must  get  a  good  sleep,"  he  said  kindly, 
and  with  his  usual  firmness  that  was  wont  to  pre- 
clude argument.  "You  are  worn  to  death.  I'll 
have  your  supper  sent  to  your  room."  The  girl 
felt  the  subtle  change  in  his  manner  and  her  lip 
quivered  for  a  vague  reason  that  neither  knew,  but, 
without  a  word,  she  obeyed  him  like  a  child.  He 
did  not  try  again  to  kiss  her.  He  merely  took  her 
hand,  placed  his  left  over  it,  and  with  a  gentle 
pressure,  said: 

"Good-night,  little  girl." 

"Good-night,"  she  faltered. 

Resolutely,  relentlessly,  first,  Hale  cast  up  his 
accounts,  liabilities,  resources,  that  night,  to  see 
what,  under  the  least  favourable  outcome,  the 
balance  left  to  him  would  be.  Nearly  all  was 
gone.  His  securities  were  already  sold.  His  lots 
would  not  bring  at  public  sale  one-half  of  the  de- 
ferred payments  yet  to  be  made  on  them,  and  if 
the  company  brought  suit,  as  it  was  threatening 
to  do,  he  would  be  left  fathoms  deep  in  debt. 
The  branch  railroad  had  not  come  up  the  river 

266 


THE  TRAIL  OF  THE  LONESOME  PINE 

toward  Lonesome  Cove,  and  now  he  meant  to 
build  barges  and  float  his  cannel  coal  down  to  the 
main  line,  for  his  sole  hope  was  in  the  mine  in 
Lonesome  Cove.  The  means  that  he  could  com- 
mand were  meagre,  but  they  would  carry  his  pur- 
pose with  June  for  a  year  at  least  and  then — who 
knew  ? — he  might,  through  that  mine,  be  on  his 
feet  again. 

The  little  town  was  dark  and  asleep  when  he 
stepped  into  the  cool  night-air  and  made  his  way 
past  the  old  school-house  and  up  Imboden  Hill. 
He  could  see — all  shining  silver  in  the  moonlight 
— the  still  crest  of  the  big  beech  at  the  blessed 
roots  of  which  his  lips  had  met  June's  in  the  first 
kiss  that  had  passed  between  them.  On  he  went 
through  the  shadowy  aisle  that  the  path  made  be- 
tween other  beech-trunks,  harnessed  by  the  moon- 
light with  silver  armour  and  motionless  as  senti- 
nels on  watch  till  dawn,  out  past  the  amphitheatre 
of  darkness  from  which  the  dead  trees  tossed  out 
their  crooked  arms  as  though  voicing  silently  now 
his  own  soul's  torment,  and  then  on  to  the  point  of 
the  spur  of  foot-hills  where,  with  the  mighty 
mountains  encircling  him  and  the  world,  a  dream- 
land lighted  only  by  stars,  he  stripped  his  soul 
before  the  Maker  of  it  and  of  him  and  fought  his 
fight  out  alone. 

His  was  the  responsibility  for  all — his  alone. 
No  one  else  was  to  blame — June  not  at  all.  He 
had  taken  her  from  her  own  life — had  swerved 


THE  TRAIL  OF  THE  LONESOME  PINE 

her  from  the  way  to  which  God  pointed  when  she 
was  born.  He  had  given  her  everything  she 
wanted,  had  allowed  her  to  do  what  she  pleased 
and  had  let  her  think  that,  through  his  miraculous 
handling  of  her  resources,  she  was  doing  it  all  her- 
self. And  the  result  was  natural.  For  the  past 
two  years  he  had  been  harassed  with  debt,  racked 
with  worries,  writhing  this  way  and  that,  concerned 
only  with  the  soul-tormenting  catastrophe  that  had 
overtaken  him.  About  all  else  he  had  grown  care- 
less. He  had  not  been  to  see  her  the  last  year,  he 
had  written  seldom,  and  it  appalled  him  to  look 
back  now  on  his  own  self-absorption  and  to  think 
how  he  must  have  appeared  to  June.  And  he  had 
gone  on  in  that  self-absorption  to  the  very  end. 
He  had  got  his  license  to  marry,  had  asked  Uncle 
Billy,  who  was  magistrate  as  well  as  miller,  to 
marry  them,  and,  a  rough  mountaineer  himself  to 
the  outward  eye,  he  had  appeared  to  lead  a  child 
like  a  lamb  to  the  sacrifice  and  had  found  a  woman 
with  a  mind,  heart  and  purpose  of  her  own.  It 
was  all  his  work.  He  had  sent  her  away  to  fit  her 
for  his  station  in  life — to  make  her  fit  to  marry 
him.  She  had  risen  above  and  now  he  was  not  fit 
to  marry  her.  That  was  the  brutal  truth — a  truth 
that  was  enough  to  make  a  wise  man  laugh  or  a 
fool  weep,  and  Hale  did  neither.  He  simply  went 
on  working  to  make  out  how  he  could  best  dis- 
charge the  obligations  that  he  had  voluntarily, 
willingly,  gladly,  selfishly  even,  assumed.  In  his 

268 


THE  TRAIL  OF  THE  LONESOME  PINE 

mind  he  treated  conditions  only  as  he  saw  and  felt 
them  and  believed  them  at  that  moment  true:  and 
into  the  problem  he  went  no  deeper  than  to  find 
his  simple  duty,  and  that,  while  the  morning  stars 
were  sinking,  he  found.  And  it  was  a  duty  the 
harder  to  find  because  everything  had  reawakened 
within  him,  and  the  starting-point  of  that  awak- 
ening was  the  proud  glow  in  Uncle  Billy's  kind  old 
face,  when  he  knew  the  part  he  was  to  play  in  the 
happiness  of  Hale  and  June.  All  the  way  over 
the  mountain  that  day  his  heart  had  gathered  fuel 
from  memories  at  the  big  Pine,  and  down  the 
mountain  and  through  the  gap,  to  be  set  aflame 
by  the  yellow  sunlight  in  the  valley  and  the  throb- 
bing life  in  everything  that  was  alive,  for  the 
month  was  June  and  the  spirit  of  that  month  was 
on  her  way  to  him.  So  when  he  rose  now,  with 
back-thrown  head,  he  stretched  his  arms  sud- 
denly out  toward  those  far-seeing  stars,  and  as 
suddenly  dropped  them  with  an  angry  shake  of 
his  head  and  one  quick  gritting  of  his  teeth  that 
such  a  thought  should  have  mastered  him  even  for 
one  swift  second — the  thought  of  how  lonesome 
would  be  the  trail  that  would  be  his  to  follow  after 
that  day. 


269 


XXIII 

TUNE,  tired  though  she  was,  tossed  restlessly 
that  night.  The  one  look  she  had  seen  in 
Hale's  face  when  she  met  him  in  the  car,  told  her 
the  truth  as  far  as  he  was  concerned.  He  was  un- 
changed, she  could  give  him  no  chance  to  with- 
draw from  their  long  understanding,  for  it  was 
plain  to  her  quick  instinct  that  he  wanted  none. 
And  so  she  had  asked  him  no  question  about  his 
failure  to  meet  her,  for  she  knew  now  that  his  rea- 
son, no  matter  what,  was  good.  He  had  startled 
her  in  the  car,  for  her  mind  was  heavy  with  mem- 
ories of  the  poor  little  cabins  she  had  passed  on 
the  train,  of  the  mountain  men  and  women  in  the 
wedding-party,  and  Hale  himself  was  to  the  eye 
so  much  like  one  of  them — had  so  startled  her 
that,  though  she  knew  that  his  instinct,  too,  was 
at  work,  she  could  not  gather  herself  together  to 
combat  her  own  feelings,  for  every  little  happen- 
ing in  the  dummy  but  drew  her  back  to  her  pre- 
vious train  of  painful  thought.  And  in  that 
helplessness  she  had  told  Hale  good-night.  She  re- 
membered now  how  she  had  looked  upon  Lone- 
some Cove  after  she  went  to  the  Gap;  how  she 
had  looked  upon  the  Gap  after  her  year  in  the 

270 


THE  TRAIL  OF  THE  LONESOME  PINE 

Bluegrass,  and  how  she  had  looked  back  even  on 
the  first  big  city  she  had  seen  there  from  the  lofty 
vantage  ground  of  New  York.  What  was  the  use 
of  it  all  ?  Why  laboriously  climb  a  hill  merely  to 
see  and  yearn  for  things  that  you  cannot  have,  if 
you  must  go  back  and  live  in  the  hollow  again  ? 
Well,  she  thought  rebelliously,  she  would  not  go 
back  to  the  hollow  again — that  was  all.  She  knew 
what  was  coming  and  her  cousin  Dave's  perpet- 
ual sneer  sprang  suddenly  from  the  past  to  cut 
through  her  again  and  the  old  pride  rose  within 
her  once  more.  She  was  good  enough  now  for 
Hale,  oh,  yes,  she  thought  bitterly,  good  enough 
now;  and  then,  remembering  his  life-long  kindness 
and  thinking  what  she  might  have  been  but  for 
him,  she  burst  into  tears  at  the  unworthiness  of  her 
own  thought.  Ah,  what  should  she  do — what 
should  she  do  ?  Repeating  that  question  over  and 
over  again,  she  fell  toward  morning  into  troubled 
sleep.  She  did  not  wake  until  nearly  noon,  for  al- 
ready she  had  formed  the  habit  of  sleeping  late — 
late  at  least,  for  that  part  of  the  world — and  she 
was  glad  when  the  negro  boy  brought  her  word 
that  Mr.  Hale  had  been  called  up  the  valley  and 
would  not  be  back  until  the  afternoon.  She 
dreaded  to  meet  him,  for  she  knew  that  he  had 
seen  the  trouble  within  her  and  she  knew  he  was 
not  the  kind  of  man  to  let  matters  drag  vaguely, 
if  they  could  be  cleared  up  and  settled  by  open 
frankness  of  discussion,  no  matter  how  blunt  he 

271 


THE  TRAIL  OF  THE  LONESOME  PINE 

must  be.  She  had  to  wait  until  mid-day  dinner 
time  for  something  to  eat,  so  she  lay  abed,  picked 
a  breakfast  from  the  menu,  which  was  spotted, 
dirty  and  meagre  in  offerings,  and  had  it  brought 
to  her  room.  Early  in  the  afternoon  she  issued 
forth  into  the  sunlight,  and  started  toward  Imbo- 
den  Hill.  It  was  very  beautiful  and  soul-com- 
forting— the  warm  air,  the  luxuriantly  wooded 
hills,  with  their  shades  of  green  that  told  her  where 
poplar  and  oak  and  beech  and  maple  grew,  the 
delicate  haze  of  blue  that  overlay  them  and  deep- 
ened as  her  eyes  followed  the  still  mountain  piles 
north-eastward  to  meet  the  big  range  that  shut  her 
in  from  the  outer  world.  The  changes  had  been 
many.  One  part  of  the  town  had  been  wiped  out 
by  fire  and  a  few  buildings  of  stone  had  risen  up. 
On  the  street  she  saw  strange  faces,  but  now  and 
then  she  stopped  to  shake  hands  with  somebody 
whom  she  knew,  and  who  recognized  her  always 
with  surprise  and  spoke  but  few  words,  and  then, 
as  she  thought,  with  some  embarrassment.  Half 
unconsciously  she  turned  toward  the  old  mill. 
There  it  was,  dusty  and  gray,  and  the  dripping  old 
wheel  creaked  with  its  weight  of  shining  water, 
and  the  muffled  roar  of  the  unseen  dam  started 
an  answering  stream  of  memories  surging  within 
her.  She  could  see  the  window  of  her  room  in  the 
old  brick  boarding-house,  and  as  she  passed  the 
gate,  she  almost  stopped  to  go  in,  but  the  face  of  a 
strange  man  who  stood  in  the  door  with  a  proprie- 

272 


THE  TRAIL  OF  THE  LONESOME  PINE 

tary  air  deterred  her.  There  was  Hale's  little 
frame  cottage  and  his  name,  half  washed  out,  was 
over  the  wing  that  was  still  his  office.  Past  that 
she  went,  with  a  passing  temptation  to  look  within, 
and  toward  the  old  school-house.  A  massive  new 
one  was  half  built,  of  gray  stone,  to  the  left,  but  the 
old  one,  with  its  shingles  on  the  outside  that  had 
once  caused  her  such  wonder,  still  lay  warm  in  the 
sun,  but  closed  and  deserted.  There  was  the  play- 
ground where  she  had  been  caught  in  "Ring 
around  the  Rosy,"  and  Hale  and  that  girl  teacher 
had  heard  her  confession.  She  flushed  again  when 
she  thought  of  that  day,  but  the  flush  was  now  for 
another  reason.  Over  the  roof  of  the  school- 
house  she  could  see  the  beech  tree  where  she  had 
built  her  playhouse,  and  memory  led  her  from  the 
path  toward  it.  She  had  not  climbed  a  hill  for  a 
long  time  and  she  was  panting  when  she  reached 
it.  There  was  the  scattered  playhouse — it  might 
have  lain  there  untouched  for  a  quarter  of  a  cen- 
tury— just  as  her  angry  feet  had  kicked  it  to  pieces. 
On  a  root  of  the  beech  she  sat  down  and  the  broad 
rim  of  her  hat  scratched  the  trunk  of  it  and  an- 
noyed her,  so  she  took  it  off  and  leaned  her  head 
against  the  tree,  looking  up  into  the  underworld 
of  leaves  through  which  a  sunbeam  filtered  here 
and  there — one  striking  her  hair  which  had  dark- 
ened to  a  duller  gold — striking  it  eagerly,  uner- 
ringly, as  though  it  had  started  for  just  such  a  shin- 
ing mark.  Below  her  was  outspread  the  little 

273 


THE  TRAIL  OF  THE  LONESOME  PINE 

town — the  straggling,  wretched  little  town — crude, 
lonely,  lifeless!  She  could  not  be  happy  in  Lone- 
some Cove  after  she  had  known  the  Gap,  and  now 
her  horizon  had  so  broadened  that  she  felt  now 
toward  the  Gap  and  its  people  as  she  had  then  felt 
toward  the  mountaineers:  for  the  standards  of 
living  in  the  Cove — so  it  seemed — were  no  farther 
below  the  standards  in  the  Gap  than  they  in  turn 
were  lower  than  the  new  standards  to  which  she 
had  adapted  herself  while  away.  Indeed,  even 
that  Bluegrass  world  where  she  had  spent  a  year 
was  too  narrow  now  for  her  vaulting  ambition, 
and  with  that  thought  she  looked  down  again  on 
the  little  town,  a  lonely  island  in  a  sea  of  moun- 
tains and  as  far  from  the  world  for  which  she  had 
been  training  herself  as  though  it  were  in  mid- 
ocean.  Live  down  there  ?  She  shuddered  at  the 
thought  and  straightway  was  very  miserable. 
The  clear  piping  of  a  wood-thrush  rose  far  away, 
a  tear  started  between  her  half-closed  lashes  and 
she  might  have  gone  to  weeping  silently,  had  her 
ear  not  caught  the  sound  of  something  moving 
below  her.  Some  one  was  coming  that  way,  so 
she  brushed  her  eyes  swiftly  with  her  handkerchief 
and  stood  upright  against  the  tree.  And  there 
again  Hale  found  her,  tense,  upright,  bareheaded 
again  and  her  hands  behind  her;  only  her  face 
was  not  uplifted  and  dreaming — it  was  turned 
toward  him,  unstartled  and  expectant.  He  stopped 
below  her  and  leaned  one  shoulder  against  a  tree. 

274 


THE  TRAIL  OF  THE  LONESOME  PINE 

"I  saw  you  pass  the  office,"  he  said,  "and  I 
thought  I  should  find  you  here." 

His  eyes  dropped  to  the  scattered  playhouse  of 
long  ago — and  a  faint  smile  that  was  full  of  sub- 
merged sadness  passed  over  his  face.  It  was  his 
playhouse,  after  all,  that  she  had  kicked  to  pieces. 
But  he  did  not  mention  it — nor  her  attitude — nor 
did  he  try,  in  any  way,  to  arouse  her  memories  of 
that  other  time  at  this  same  place. 

"  I  want  to  talk  with  you,  June — and  I  want  to 
talk  now." 

"Yes,  Jack,"  she  said  tremulously. 

For  a  moment  he  stood  in  silence,  his  face  half- 
turned,  his  teeth  hard  on  his  indrawn  lip — think- 
ing. There  was  nothing  of  the  mountaineer  about 
him  now.  He  was  clean-shaven  and  dressed  with 
care — June  saw  that — but  he  looked  quite  old,  his 
face  seemed  harried  with  worries  and  ravaged  by 
suffering,  and  June  had  suddenly  to  swallow  a 
quick  surging  of  pity  for  him.  He  spoke  slowly 
and  without  looking  at  her: 

"  June,  if  it  hadn't  been  for  me,  you  would  be 
over  in  Lonesome  Cove  and  happily  married  by 
this  time,  or  at  least  contented  with  your  life,  for 
you  wouldn't  have  known  any  other." 

"I  don't  know,  Jack." 

"  I  took  you  out — and  it  rests  with  you  whether 
I  shall  be  sorry  I  did — sorry  wholly  on  your  ac- 
count, I  mean,"  he  added  hastily. 

She  knew  what  he  meant  and  she  said  nothing 
275 


THE  TRAIL  OF  THE  LONESOME  PINE 

— she  only  turned  her  head  away  slightly,  with  her 
eyes  upturned  a  little  toward  the  leaves  that  were 
shaking  like  her  own  heart. 

"  I  think  I  see  it  all  very  clearly,"  he  went  on,  in 
a  low  and  perfectly  even  voice.  "You  can't  be 
happy  over  there  now — you  can't  be  happy  over 
here  now.  You've  got  other  wishes,  ambitions, 
dreams,  now,  and  I  want  you  to  realize  them,  and 
I  want  to  help  you  to  realize  them  all  I  can — that's 
all." 

"Jack! — "  she  helplessly,  protestingly  spoke 
his  name  in  a  whisper,  but  that  was  all  she  could 
do,  and  he  went  on : 

"It  isn't  so  strange.  What  is  strange  is  that  I — 
that  I  didn't  foresee  it  all.  But  if  I  had,"  he 
added  firmly,  "I'd  have  done  it  just  the  same — 
unless  by  doing  it  I've  really  done  you  more  harm 
than  good." 

"No— no— Jack!" 

"  I  came  into  your  world — you  went  into  mine. 
What  I  had  grown  indifferent  about — you  grew 
to  care  about.  You  grew  sensitive  while  I  was 
growing  callous  to  certain — "  he  was  about  to  say 
"surface  things,"  but  he  checked  himself— "  cer- 
ta'n  things  in  life  that  mean  more  to  a  woman 
than  to  a  man.  I  would  not  have  married  you  as 
you  were — I've  got  to  be  honest  now — at  least  I 
thought  it  necessary  that  you  should  be  otherwise 
— and  now  you  have  gone  beyond  me,  and  now 
you  do  not  want  to  marry  me  as  I  am.  And  it  is 

276 


THE  TRAIL  OF  THE  LONESOME  PINE 

all  very  natural  and  very  just."  Very  slowly  her 
head  had  dropped  until  her  chin  rested  hard  above 
the  little  jewelled  cross  on  her  breast. 

"You  must  tell  me  if  I  am  wrong.  You  don't 
love  me  now — well  enough  to  be  happy  with  me 
here" — he  waved  one  hand  toward  the  straggling 
little  town  below  them  and  then  toward  the 
lonely  mountains — "I  did  not  know  that  we 
would  have  to  live  here — but  I  know  it  now — " 
he  checked  himself,  and  afterward  she  recalled  the 
tone  of  those  last  words,  but  then  they  had  no 
especial  significance. 

"Am  I  wrong?"  he  repeated,  and  then  he  said 
hurriedly,  for  her  face  was  so  piteous — "No,  you 
needn't  give  yourself  the  pain  of  saying  it  in 
words.  I  want  you  to  know  that  I  understand 
that  there  is  nothing  in  the  world  I  blame  you  for 
— nothing — nothing.  If  there  is  any  blame  at  all, 
it  rests  on  me  alone."  She  broke  toward  him  with 
a  cry  then. 

"No — no,  Jack,"  she  said  brokenly,  and  she 
caught  his  hand  in  both  her  own  and  tried  to  raise 
it  to  her  lips,  but  he  held  her  back  and  she  put  her 
face  on  his  breast  and  sobbed  heart-brokenly.  He 
waited  for  the  paroxysm  to  pass,  stroking  her  hair 
gently. 

"You  mustn't  feel  that  way,  little  girl.  You 
can't  help  it — I  can't  help  it — and  these  things 
happen  all  the  time,  everywhere.  You  don't  have 
to  stay  here.  You  can  go  away  and  study,  and 

277 


THE  TRAIL  OF  THE  LONESOME  PINE 

when  I  can,  I'll  come  to  see  you  and  cheer  you  up; 
and  when  you  are  a  great  singer,  I'll  send  you 
flowers  and  be  so  proud  of  you,  and  I'll  say  to  my- 
self, 'I  helped  do  that/  Dry  your  eyes,  now. 
You  must  go  back  to  the  hotel.  Your  father  will 
be  there  by  this  time  and  you'll  have  to  be  starting 
home  pretty  soon." 

Like  a  child  she  obeyed  him,  but  she  was  so 
weak  and  trembling  that  he  put  his  arm  about  her 
to  help  her  down  the  hill.  At  the  edge  of  the 
woods  she  stopped  and  turned  full  toward  him. 

"You  are  so  good,"  she  said  tremulously,  "so 
good.  Why,  you  haven't  even  asked  me  if  there 
was  another " 

Hale  interrupted  her,  shaking  his  head. 

"If  there  is,  I  don't  want  to  know." 

"But  there  isn't,  there  isn't!"  she  cried,  "I 
don't  know  what  is  the  matter  with  me.  I  hate — " 
the  tears  started  again,  and  again  she  was  on  the 
point  of  breaking  down,  but  Hale  checked  her. 

"Now,  now,"  he  said  soothingly,  "you  mustn't, 
now — that's  all  right.  You  mustn't."  Her  anger 
at  herself  helped  now. 

"Why,  I  stood  like  a  silly  fool,  tongue-tied,  and 
I  wanted  to  say  so  much.  I " 

"You  don't  need  to,"  Hale  said  gently,  "I  un- 
derstand it  all.  I  understand." 

"I  believe  you  do,"  she  said  with  a  sob,  "better 
than  I  do." 

"Well,  it's  all  right,  little  girl.    Come  on." 
278 


THE  TRAIL  OF  THE  LONESOME  PINE 

They  issued  forth  into  the  sunlight  and  Hale 
walked  rapidly.  The  strain  was  getting  too  much 
for  him  and  he  was  anxious  to  be  alone.  Without 
a  word  more  they  passed  the  old  school-house,  the 
massive  new  one,  and  went  on,  in  silence,  down 
the  street.  Hitched  to  a  post,  near  the  hotel,  were 
two  gaunt  horses  with  drooping  heads,  and  on  one 
of  them  was  a  side-saddle.  Sitting  on  the  steps  of 
the  hotel,  with  a  pipe  in  his  mouth,  was  the 
mighty  figure  of  Devil  Judd  Tolliver.  He  saw 
them  coming — at  least  he  saw  Hale  coming,  and 
that  far  away  Hale  saw  his  bushy  eyebrows  lift  in 
wonder  at  June.  A  moment  later  he  rose  to  his 
great  height  without  a  word. 

"Dad,"  said  June  in  a  trembling  voice,  "don't 
you  know  me?"  The  old  man  stared  at  her  si- 
lently and  a  doubtful  smile  played  about  his 
bearded  lips. 

"Hardly,  but  I  reckon  hit's  June." 

She  knew  that  the  world  to  which  Hale  belonged 
would  expect  her  to  kiss  him,  and  she  made  a 
movement  as  though  she  would,  but  the  habit  of 
a  lifetime  is  not  broken  so  easily.  She  held  out 
her  hand,  and  with  the  other  patted  him  on  the 
arm  as  she  looked  up  into  his  face. 

"Time  to  be  goin',  June,  if  we  want  to  get  home 
afore  dark!" 

"All  right,  Dad." 

The  old  man  turned  to  his  horse. 

"Hurry  up,  little  gal." 
279 


THE  TRAIL  OF  THE  LONESOME  PINE 

In  a  few  mniutes  they  were  ready,  and  the  girl 
looked  long  into  Kale's  face  when  he  took  her 
hand. 

"You  are  coming  over  soon  ?" 

lf  Just  as  soon  as  I  can."    Her  lips  trembled. 

"Good-by,"  she  faltered. 

"Good-by,  June,"  said  Hale. 

From  the  steps  he  watched  them — the  giant 
father  slouching  in  his  saddle  and  the  trim  figure 
of  the  now  sadly  misplaced  girl,  erect  on  the  awk- 
ward-pacing mountain  beast — as  incongruous,  the 
two,  as  a  fairy  on  some  prehistoric  monster.  A 
horseman  was  coming  up  the  street  behind  him 
and  a  voice  called: 

"Who's  that?"  Hale  turned — it  was  the 
Honourable  Samuel  Budd,  coming  home  from 
Court. 

"JuneTolliver." 

"June  Taliaferro,"  corrected  the  Hon.  Sam 
with  emphasis. 

"The  same."  The  Hon.  Sam  silently  followed 
the  pair  for  a  moment  through  his  big  goggles. 

"What  do  you  think  of  my  theory  of  the  latent 
possibilities  of  the  mountaineer — now?" 

"I  think  I  know  how  true  it  is  better  than  you 
do,"  said  Hale  calmly,  and  with  a  grunt  the  Hon. 
Sam  rode  on.  Hale  watched  them  as  they  rode 
across  the  plateau — watched  them  until  the  Gap 
swallowed  them  up  and  his  heart  ached  for  June. 
Then  he  went  to  his  room  and  there,  stretched  out 

280 


THE  TRAIL  OF  THE  LONESOME  PINE 

on  his  bed  and  with  his  hands  clenched  behind  his 
head,  he  lay  staring  upward. 

Devil  Judd  Tolliver  had  lost  none  of  his  taci- 
turnity. Stolidly,  silently,  he  went  ahead,  as  is 
the  custom  of  lordly  man  in  the  mountains — 
horseback  or  afoot — asking  no  questions,  answer- 
ing June's  in  the  fewest  words  possible.  Uncle 
Billy,  the  miller,  had  been  complaining  a  good 
deal  that  spring,  and  old  Hon  had  rheumatism. 
Uncle  Billy's  old-maid  sister,  who  lived  on  Devil's 
Fork,  had  been  cooking  for  him  at  home  since  the 
last  taking  to  bed  of  June's  step-mother.  Bub  had 
"growed  up"  like  a  hickory  sapling.  Her  cousin 
Loretta  hadn't  married,  and  some  folks  allowed 
she'd  run  away  some  day  yet  with  young  Buck 
Falin.  Her  cousin  Dave  had  gone  off  to  school 
that  year,  had  come  back  a  month  before,  and 
been  shot  through  the  shoulder.  He  was  in  Lone- 
some Cove  now. 

This  fact  was  mentioned  in  the  same  matter-of- 
fact  way  as  the  other  happenings.  Hale  had  been 
raising  Cain  in  Lonesome  Cove — "A-cuttin* 
things  down  an'  tearin'  'em  up  an'  playin'  hell 
ginerally." 

The  feud  had  broken  out  again  and  maybe 
June  couldn't  stay  at  home  long.  He  didn't  want 
her  there  with  the  fighting  going  on — whereat 
June's  heart  gave  a  start  of  gladness  that  the  way 
would  be  easy  for  her  to  leave  when  she  wished  to 

281 


THE  TRAIL  OF  THE  LONESOME  PINE 

leave.  Things  over  at  the  Gap  "was  agoirT  to 
perdition,"  the  old  man  had  been  told,  while  he 
was  waiting  for  June  and  Hale  that  day,  and  Hale 
had  not  only  lost  a  lot  of  money,  but  if  things 
didn't  take  a  rise,  he  would  be  left  head  over  heels 
in  debt,  if  that  mine  over  in  Lonesome  Cove  didn't 
pull  him  out. 

They  were  approaching  the  big  Pine  now,  and 
June  was  beginning  to  ache  and  get  sore  from  the 
climb.  So  Hale  was  in  trouble — that  was  what  he 
meant  when  he  said  that,  though  she  could  leave 
the  mountains  when  she  pleased,  he  must  stay 
there,  perhaps  for  good. 

"  I'm  mighty  glad  you  come  home,  gal,"  said  the 
old  man,  "  an'  that  ye  air  goin'  to  put  an  end  to  all 
this  spendin'  o'  so  much  money.  Jack  says  you 
got  some  money  left,  but  I  don't  understand  it. 
He  says  he  made  a  'investment'  fer  ye  and  tribbled 
the  money.  I  haint  never  axed  him  no  questions. 
Hit  was  betwixt  you  an'  him,  an'  'twant  none  o' 
my  business  long  as  you  an'  him  air  goin'  to 
marry.  He  said  you  was  goin'  to  marry  this  sum- 
mer an'  I  wish  you'd  git  tied  up  right  away  whilst 
I'm  livin',  fer  I  don't  know  when  a  Winchester 
might  take  me  off  an'  I'd  die  a  sight  easier  if  I 
knowed  you  was  tied  up  with  a  good  man  like  him." 

"Yes,  Dad,"  was  all  she  said,  for  she  had  not 
the  heart  to  tell  him  the  truth,  and  she  knew  that 
Hale  never  would  until  the  last  moment  he  must, 
when  he  learned  that  she  had  failed. 

282 


THE  TRAIL  OF  THE  LONESOME  PINE 

Half  an  hour  later,  she  could  see  the  stone 
chimney  of  the  little  cabin  in  Lonesome  Cove. 
A  little  farther  down  several  spirals  of  smoke  were 
visible — rising  from  unseen  houses  which  were 
more  miners'  shacks,  her  father  said,  that  Hale 
had  put  up  while  she  was  gone.  The  water  of  the 
creek  was  jet  black  now.  A  row  of  rough  wooden 
houses  ran  along  its  edge.  The  geese  cackled  a 
doubtful  welcome.  A  new  dog  leaped  barking 
from  the  porch  and  a  tall  boy  sprang  after  him — 
both  running  for  the  gate. 

"Why,  Bub,"  cried  June,  sliding  from  her  horse 
and  kissing  him,  and  then  holding  him  off  at  arms' 
length  to  look  into  his  steady  gray  eyes  and  his 
blushing  face. 

"Take  the  horses,  Bub,"  said  old  Judd,  and 
June  entered  the  gate  while  Bub  stood  with  the 
reins  in  his  hand,  still  speechlessly  staring  her  over 
from  head  to  foot.  There  was  her  garden,  thank 
God — with  all  her  flowers  planted,  a  new  bed  of 
pansies  and  one  of  violets  and  the  border  of  laurel 
in  bloom — unchanged  and  weedless. 

"One  o'  Jack  Hale's  men  takes  keer  of  it,"  ex- 
plained old  Judd,  and  again,  with  shame,  June  felt 
the  hurt  of  her  lover's  thoughtfulness.  When  she 
entered  the  cabin,  the  same  old  rasping  petulant 
voice  called  her  from  a  bed  in  one  corner,  and  when 
June  took  the  shrivelled  old  hand  that  was  limply 
thrust  from  the  bed-clothes,  the  old  hag's  keen 
eyes  swept  her  from  head  to  foot  with  disapproval. 

283 


THE  TRAIL  OF  THE  LONESOME  PINE 

"My,  but  you  air  wearin'  mighty  fine  clothes," 
she  croaked  enviously.  "I  ain't  had  a  new  dress 
fer  more'n  five  year;"  and  that  was  the  welcome 
she  got. 

"No?"  said  June  appeasingly.  "Well,  I'll  get 
one  for  you  myself." 

"I'm  much  obleeged,"  she  whined,  "but  I 
reckon  I  can  git  along." 

A  cough  came  from  the  bed  in  the  other  corner 
of  the  room. 

"That's  Dave,"  said  the  old  woman,  and  June 
walked  over  to  where  her  cousin's  black  eyes  shone 
hostile  at  her  from  the  dark. 

"I'm  sorry,  Dave,"  she  said,  but  Dave  answered 
nothing  but  a  sullen  "howdye"  and  did  not  put 
out  a  hand — he  only  stared  at  her  in  sulky  bewil- 
derment, and  June  went  back  to  listen  to  the  tor- 
rent of  the  old  woman's  plaints  until  Bub  came  in. 
Then  as  she  turned,  she  noticed  for  the  first  time 
that  a  new  door  had  been  cut  in  one  side  of  the  cabin, 
and  Bub  was  following  the  direction  of  her  eyes. 

"Why,  haint  nobody  told  ye?"  he  said  delight- 
edly. 

"Told  me  what,  Bub?" 

With  a  whoop  Bud  leaped  for  the  side  of  the 
door  and,  reaching  up,  pulled  a  shining  key  from 
between  the  logs  and  thrust  it  into  her  hands. 

"Go  ahead,"  he  said.    "Hit's  yourn." 

"Some  more o'  Jack  Hale's  fool  doin's,"  said  the 
old  woman.  "Go  on,  gal,  and  see  whut  he's  done." 

284 


THE  TRAIL  OF  THE  LONESOME  PINE 

With  eager  hands  she  put  the  key  in  the  lock 
and  when  she  pushed  open  the  door,  she  gasped. 
Another  room  had  been  added  to  the  cabin — and 
the  fragrant  smell  of  cedar  made  her  nostrils 
dilate.  Bub  pushed  by  her  and  threw  open  the 
shutters  of  a  window  to  the  low  sunlight,  and  June 
stood  with  both  hands  to  her  head.  It  was  a  room 
for  her — with  a  dresser,  a  long  mirror,  a  modern 
bed  in  one  corner,  a  work-table  with  a  student's 
lamp  on  it,  a  wash-stand  and  a  chest  of  drawers 
and  a  piano !  On  the  walls  were  pictures  and  over 
the  mantel  stood  the  one  she  had  first  learned  to 
love — two  lovers  clasped  in  each  other's  arms  and 
under  them  the  words  "  Enfin  Seul." 

"Oh-oh,"  was  all  she  could  say,  and  choking, 
she  motioned  Bub  from  the  room.  When  the  door 
closed,  she  threw  herself  sobbing  across  the  bed. 

Over  at  the  Gap  that  night  Hale  sat  in  his  office 
with  a  piece  of  white  paper  and  a  lump  of  black 
coal  on  the  table  in  front  of  him.  His  foreman  had 
brought  the  coal  to  him  that  day  at  dusk.  He 
lifted  the  lump  to  the  light  of  his  lamp,  and  from 
the  centre  of  it  a  mocking  evil  eye  leered  back  at 
him.  The  eye  was  a  piece  of  shining  black  flint 
and  told  him  that  his  mine  in  Lonesome  Cove  was 
but  a  pocket  of  cannel  coal  and  worth  no  more 
than  the  smouldering  lumps  in  his  grate.  Then  he 
lifted  the  piece  of  white  paper — it  was  his  license 
to  marry  June. 

285 


XXIV 

TyHERY  slowly  June  walked  up  the  little  creek 
to  the  old  log  where  she  had  lain  so  many 
happy  hours.  There  was  no  change  in  leaf,  shrub 
or  tree,  and  not  a  stone  in  the  brook  had  been  dis- 
turbed. The  sun  dropped  the  same  arrows  down 
through  the  leaves — blunting  their  shining  points 
into  tremulous  circles  on  the  ground,  the  water 
sang  the  same  happy  tune  under  her  dangling  feet 
and  a  wood-thrush  piped  the  old  lay  overhead. 

Wood-thrush!  June  smiled  as  she  suddenly  re- 
christened  the  bird  for  herself  now.  That  bird 
henceforth  would  be  the  Magic  Flute  to  musical 
June — and  she  leaned  back  with  ears,  eyes  and 
soul  awake  and  her  brain  busy. 

All  the  way  over  the  mountain,  on  that  second 
home-going,  she  had  thought  of  the  first,  and  even 
memories  of  the  memories  aroused  by  that  first 
home-going  came  back  to  her — the  place  where 
Hale  had  put  his  horse  into  a  dead  run  and  had 
given  her  that  never-to-be-forgotten  thrill,  and 
where  she  had  slid  from  behind  to  the  ground  [and 
stormed  with  tears.  When  they  dropped  down 
into  the  green  gloom  of  shadow  and  green  leaves 
toward  Lonesome  Cove,  she  had  the  same  feeling 

286 


THE  TRAIL  OF  THE  LONESOME  PINE 

that  her  heart  was  being  clutched  by  a  human 
hand  and  that  black  night  had  suddenly  fallen 
about  her,  but  this  time  she  knew  what  it  meant. 
She  thought  then  of  the  crowded  sleeping-room, 
the  rough  beds  and  coarse  blankets  at  home;  the 
oil-cloth,  spotted  with  drippings  from  a  candle, 
that  covered  the  table;  the  thick  plates  and  cups; 
the  soggy  bread  and  the  thick  bacon  floating  in 
grease;  the  absence  of  napkins,  the  eating  with 
knives  and  fingers  and  the  noise  Bub  and  her 
father  made  drinking  their  coffee.  But  then  she 
knew  all  these  things  in  advance,  and  the  memo- 
ries of  them  on  her  way  over  had  prepared  her  for 
Lonesome  Cove.  The  conditions  were  definite 
there:  she  knew  what  it  would  be  to  face  them 
again — she  was  facing  them  all  the  way,  and  to 
her  surprise  the  realities  had  hurt  her  less  even 
than  they  had  before.  Then  had  come  the  same 
thrill  over  the  garden,  and  now  with  that  garden 
and  her  new  room  and  her  piano  and  her  books, 
with  Uncle  Billy's  sister  to  help  do  the  work,  and 
with  the  little  changes  that  June  was  daily  making 
in  the  household,  she  could  live  her  own  life  even 
over  there  as  long  as  she  pleased,  and  then  she 
would  go  out  into  the  world  again. 

But  all  the  time  when  she  was  coming  over 
from  the  Gap,  the  way  had  bristled  with  ac- 
cusing memories  of  Hale — even  from  the  chat- 
tering creeks,  the  turns  in  the  road,  the  sun-dappled 
bushes  and  trees  and  flowers;  and  when  she 

287 


THE  TRAIL  OF  THE  LONESOME  PINE 

passed  the  big  Pine  that  rose  with  such  friendly 
solemnity  above  her,  the  pang  of  it  all  hurt 
her  heart  and  kept  on  hurting  her.  When  she 
walked  in  the  garden,  the  flowers  seemed  not 
to  have  the  same  spirit  of  gladness.  It  had  been 
a  dry  season  and  they  drooped  for  that  reason,  but 
the  melancholy  of  them  had  a  sympathetic  human 
quality  that  depressed  her.  If  she  saw  a  bass  shoot 
arrow-like  into  deep  water,  if  she  heard  a  bird  or 
saw  a  tree  or  a  flower  whose  name  she  had  to  re- 
call, she  thought  of  Hale.  Do  what  she  would, 
she  could  not  escape  the  ghost  that  stalked  at  her 
side  everywhere,  so  like  a  human  presence  that 
she  felt  sometimes  a  strange  desire  to  turn  and 
speak  to  it.  And  in  her  room  that  presence  was 
all-pervasive.  The  piano,  the  furniture,  the  bits 
of  bric-a-brac,  the  pictures  and  books — all  were 
eloquent  with  his  thought  of  her — and  every  night 
before  she  turned  out  her  light  she  could  not  help 
lifting  her  eyes  to  her  once-favourite  picture — even 
that  Hale  had  remembered — the  lovers  clasped  in 
each  other's  arms — "At  Last  Alone" — only  to  see 
it  now  as  a  mocking  symbol  of  his  beaten  hopes. 
She  had  written  to  thank  him  for  it  all,  and  not  yet 
had  he  answered  her  letter.  He  had  said  that  he 
was  coming  over  to  Lonesome  Cove  and  he  had 
not  come — why  should  he,  on  her  account  ?  Be- 
tween them  all  was  over — why  should  he  ?  The 
question  was  absurd  in  her  mind,  and  yet  the  fact 
that  she  had  expected  him,  that  she  so  wanted 

288 


THE  TRAIL  OF  THE  LONESOME  PINE 

him,  was  so  illogical  and  incongruous  and  vividly 
true  that  it  raised  her  to  a  sitting  posture  on  the 
log,  and  she  ran  her  fingers  over  her  forehead  and 
down  her  dazed  face  until  her  chin  was  in  the 
hollow  of  her  hand,  and  her  startled  eyes  were 
fixed  unwaveringly  on  the  running  water  and  yet 
not  seeing  it  at  all.  A  call — her  step-mother's 
cry — rang  up  the  ravine  and  she  did  not  hear 
it.  She  did  not  even  hear  Bub  coming  through 
the  underbrush  a  few  minutes  later,  and  when 
he  half  angrily  shouted  her  name  at  the  end  of 
the  vista,  down-stream,  whence  he  could  see  her, 
she  lifted  her  head  from  a  dream  so  deep  that 
in  it  all  her  senses  had  for  the  moment  been 
wholly  lost. 

"Come  on,"  he  shouted. 

She  had  forgotten — there  was  a  "bean-string- 
ing" at  the  house  that  day — and  she  slipped  slowly 
off  the  log  and  went  down  the  path,  gathering  her- 
self together  as  she  went,  and  making  no  answer 
to  the  indignant  Bub  who  turned  and  stalked 
ahead  of  her  back  to  the  house.  At  the  barn- 
yard gate  her  father  stopped  her — he  looked  wor- 
ried. 

"Jack  Hale's  jus*  been  over  hyeh."  June 
caught  her  breath  sharply. 

"Has  he  gone?"  The  old  man  was  watching 
her  and  she  felt  it. 

"Yes,  he  was  in  a  hurry  an'  nobody  knowed 
whar  you  was.  He  jus*  come  over,  he  said,  to  tell 

280 


THE  TRAIL  OF  THE  LONESOME  PINE 

me  to  tell  you  that  you  could  go  back  to  New  York 
and  keep  on  with  yo'  singin'  doin's  whenever  you 
please.  He  knowed  I  didn't  want  you  hyeh  when 
this  war  starts  fer  a  finish  as  hit's  goin'  to,  mighty 
soon  now.  He  says  he  ain't  quite  ready  to  git  mar- 
ried yit.  I'm  afeerd  he's  in  trouble." 

"Trouble?" 

"I  tol'  you  t'other  day — he's  lost  all  his  money; 
but  he  says  you've  got  enough  to  keep  you  goin' 
fer  some  time.  I  don't  see  why  you  don't  git  mar- 
ried right  now  and  live  over  at  the  Gap." 

June  coloured  and  was  silent. 

"Oh,"  said  the  old  man  quickly,  "you  ain't 
ready  nuther," — he  studied  her  with  narrowing 
eyes  and  through  a  puzzled  frown — "but  I  reckon 
hit's  all  right,  if  you  air  goin'  to  git  married  some 


time." 


"What's  all  right,  Dad?"  The  old  man 
checked  himself: 

"Ever'  thing,"  he  said  shortly,  "but  don't  you 
make  a  fool  of  yo'self  with  a  good  man  like  Jack 
Hale."  And,  wondering,  June  was  silent.  The 
truth  was  that  the  old  man  had  wormed  out  of 
Hale  an  admission  of  the  kindly  duplicity  the  lat- 
ter had  practised  on  him  and  on  June,  and  he  had 
given  his  word  to  Hale  that  he  would  not  tell  June. 
He  did  not  understand  why  Hale  should  have  so 
insisted  on  that  promise,  for  it  was  all  right  that 
Hale  should  openly  do  what  he  pleased  for  the 
girl  he  was  going  to  marry — but  he  had  given  his 

290 


THE  TRAIL  OF  THE  LONESOME  PINE 

word:    so  he  turned  away,  but  his  frown  stayed 
where  it  was. 

June  went  on,  puzzled,  for  she  knew  that  her 
father  was  withholding  something,  and  she  knew, 
too,  that  he  would  tell  her  only  in  his  own  good 
time.  But  she  could  go  away  when  she  pleased — 
that  was  the  comfort — and  with  the  thought  she 
stopped  suddenly  at  the  corner  of  the  garden.  She 
could  see  Hale  on  his  big  black  horse  climbing  the 
spur.  Once  it  had  always  been  his  custom  to  stop 
on  top  of  it  to  rest  his  horse  and  turn  to  look  back 
at  her,  and  she  always  waited  to  wave  him  good-by. 
She  wondered  if  he  would  do  it  now,  and  while 
she  looked  and  waited,  the  beating  of  her  heart 
quickened  nervously;  but  he  rode  straight  on, 
without  stopping  or  turning  his  head,  and  June 
felt  strangely  bereft  and  resentful,  and  the  com- 
fort of  the  moment  before  was  suddenly  gone. 
She  could  hear  the  voices  of  the  guests  in  the  porch 
around  the  corner  of  the  house — there  was  an  or- 
deal for  her  around  there,  and  she  went  on.  Lo- 
retta  and  Loretta's  mother  were  there,  and  old 
Hon  and  several  wives  and  daughters  of  Tolliver 
adherents  from  up  Deadwood  Creek  and  below 
Uncle  Billy's  mill.  June  knew  that  the  "bean- 
stringing"  was  simply  an  excuse  for  them  to  be 
there,  for  she  could  not  remember  that  so  many 
had  ever  gathered  there  before — at  that  function  in 
the  spring,  at  corn-cutting  in  the  autumn,  or  sor- 
ghum-making time  or  at  log-raisings  or  quilting 

291 


THE  TRAIL  OF  THE  LONESOME  PINE 

paties,  and  she  well  knew  the  motive  of  these  many 
and  the  curiosity  of  all  save,  perhaps,  Loretta  and 
the  old  miller's  wife:  and  June  was  prepared  for 
them.  She  had  borrowed  a  gown  from  her  step- 
mother— a  purple  creation  of  home-spun — she  had 
shaken  down  her  beautiful  hair  and  drawn  it  low 
over  her  brows,  and  arranged  it  behind  after  the 
fashion  of  mountain  women,  and  when  she  went 
up  the  steps  of  the  porch  she  was  outwardly  to  the 
eye  one  of  them  except  for  the  leathern  belt  about 
her  slenderly  full  waist,  her  black  silk  stockings 
and  the  little  "furrin"  shoes  on  her  dainty  feet. 
She  smiled  inwardly  when  she  saw  the  same  old 
wave  of  disappointment  sweep  across  the  faces  of 
them  all.  It  was  not  necessary  to  shake  hands,  but 
unthinkingly  she  did,  and  the  women  sat  in  their 
chairs  as  she  went  from  one  to  the  other  and  each 
gave  her  a  limp  hand  and  a  grave  "howdye,"  though 
each  paid  an  unconscious  tribute  to  a  vague  some- 
thing about  her,  by  wiping  that  hand  on  an  apron 
first.  Very  quietly  and  naturally  she  took  a  low 
chair,  piled  beans  in  her  lap  and,  as  one  of  them, 
went  to  work.  Nobody  looked  at  her  at  first  until 
old  Hon  broke  the  silence. 

"You  haint  lost  a  spec  o'  yo'  good  looks,  Juny." 

June  laughed  without  a  flush — she  would  have 

reddened  to  the  roots  of  her  hair  two  years  before. 

"I'm  feelin'  right  peart,  thank  ye,"  she  said, 

dropping   consciously    into    the   vernacular;     but 

there  was  a  something  in  her  voice  that  was  vaguely 

292 


THE  TRAIL  OF  THE  LONESOME  PINE 

felt  by  all  as  a  part  of  the  universal  strangeness 
that  was  in  her  erect  bearing,  her  proud  head,  her 
deep  eyes  that  looked  so  straight  into  their  own — 
a  strangeness  that  was  in  that  belt  and  those  stock- 
ings and  those  shoes,  inconspicuous  as  they  were, 
to  which  she  saw  every  eye  in  time  covertly  wan- 
dering as  to  tangible  symbols  of  a  mystery  that  was 
beyond  their  ken.  Old  Hon  and  the  step-mother 
alone  talked  at  first,  and  the  others,  even  Loretta, 
said  never  a  word. 

"Jack  Hale  must  have  been  in  a  mighty  big 
hurry,"  quavered  the  old  step-mother.  "June 
ain't  goin'  to  be  with  us  long,  I'm  afeerd:"  and, 
without  looking  up,  June  knew  the  wireless  sig- 
nificance of  the  speech  was  going  around  from  eye 
to  eye,  but  calmly  she  pulled  her  thread  through  a 
green  pod  and  said  calmly,  with  a  little  enigmati- 
cal shake  of  her  head: 

"I — don't  know — I  don't  know." 

Young  Dave's  mother  was  encouraged  and  all 
her  efforts  at  good-humour  could  not  quite  draw 
the  sting  of  a  spiteful  plaint  from  her  voice. 

"I  reckon  she'd  never  git  away,  if  my  boy  Dave 
had  the  sayin'  of  it."  There  was  a  subdued  titter 
at  this,  but  Bub  had  come  in  from  the  stable  and 
had  dropped  on  the  edge  of  the  porch.  He  broke 
in  hotly: 

"You  jest  let  June  alone,  Aunt  Tilly,  you'll 
have  yo'  hands  full  if  you  keep  yo'  eye  on  Loretty 
thar." 

293 


THE  TRAIL  OF  THE  LONESOME  PINE 

Already  when  somebody  was  saying  something 
about  the  feud,  as  June  came  around  the  corner, 
her  quick  eye  had  seen  Loretta  bend  her  head 
swiftly  over  her  work  to  hide  the  flush  of  her  face. 
Now  Loretta  turned  scarlet  as  the  step-mother 
spoke  severely: 

"You  hush,  Bub,"  and  Bub  rose  and  stalked 
into  the  house.  Aunt  Tilly  was  leaning  back  in 
her  chair — gasping — and  consternation  smote  the 
group.  June  rose  suddenly  with  her  string  of 
dangling  beans. 

"I  haven't  shown  you  my  room,  Loretty. 
Don't  you  want  to  see  it  ?  Come  on,  all  of  you," 
she  added  to  the  girls,  and  they  and  Loretta  with 
one  swift  look  of  gratitude  rose  shyly  and  trooped 
shyly  within  where  they  looked  in  wide-mouthed 
wonder  at  the  marvellous  things  that  room  con- 
tained. The  older  women  followed  to  share  sight 
of  the  miracle,  and  all  stood  looking  from  one 
thing  to  another,  some  with  their  hands  behind 
them  as  though  to  thwart  the  temptation  to  touch, 
and  all  saying  merely: 

"My!  My!" 

None  of  them  had  ever  seen  a  piano  before  and 
June  must  play  the  "shiny  contraption"  and  sing 
a  song.  It  was  only  curiosity  and  astonishment 
that  she  evoked  when  her  swift  fingers  began  run- 
ning over  the  keys  from  one  end  of  the  board  to  the 
other,  astonishment  at  the  gymnastic  quality  of 
the  performance,  and  only  astonishment  when  her 

294 


THE  TRAIL  OF  THE  LONESOME  PINE 

lovely  voice  set  the  very  walls  of  the  little  room  to 
vibrating  with  a  dramatic  love  song  that  was  about 
as  intelligible  to  them  as  a  problem  in  calculus, 
and  June  flushed  and  then  smiled  with  quick 
understanding  at  the  dry  comment  that  rose  from 
Aunt  Tilly  behind: 

"She  shorely  can  holler  some!" 

She  couldn't  play  "Sourwood  Mountain"  on 
the  piano — nor  "Jinny  git  Aroun',"  nor  "Soap- 
suds over  the  Fence,"  but  with  a  sudden  inspira- 
tion she  went  back  to  an  old  hymn  that  they  all 
knew,  and  at  the  end  she  won  the  tribute  of  an 
awed  silence  that  made  them  file  back  to  the 
beans  on  the  porch.  Loretta  lingered  a  moment 
and  when  June  closed  the  piano  and  the  two  girls 
went  into  the  main  room,  a  tall  figure,  entering, 
stopped  in  the  door  and  stared  at  June  without 
speaking: 

"Why,  howdye,  Uncle  Rufe,"  said  Loretta. 
"This  is  June.  You  didn't  know  her,  did  ye?" 
The  man  laughed.  Something  in  June's  bearing 
made  him  take  off  his  hat;  he  came  forward  to 
shake  hands,  and  June  looked  up  into  a  pair  of 
bold  black  eyes  that  stirred  within  her  again  the 
vague  fears  of  her  childhood.  She  had  been 
afraid  of  him  when  she  was  a  child,  and  it  was  the 
old  fear  aroused  that  made  her  recall  him  by  his 
eyes  now.  His  beard  was  gone  and  he  was  much 
changed.  She  trembled  when  she  shook  hands 
with  him  and  she  did  not  call  him  by  his  name. 

295 


THE  TRAIL  OF  THE  LONESOME  PINE 

Old  Judd  came  in,  and  a  moment  later  the  two 
men  and  Bub  sat  on  the  porch  while  the  women 
worked,  and  when  June  rose  again  to  go  indoors, 
she  felt  the  newcomer's  bold  eyes  take  her  slowly 
in  from  head  to  foot  and  she  turned  crimson.  This 
was  the  terror  among  the  Tollivers — Bad  Rufe, 
come  back  from  the  West  to  take  part  in  the  feud. 
He  saw  the  belt  and  the  stockings  and  the  shoes, 
the  white  column  of  her  throat  and  the  proud  set 
of  her  gold-crowned  head;  he  knew  what  they 
meant,  he  made  her  feel  that  he  knew,  and  later 
he  managed  to  catch  her  eyes  once  with  an  amused, 
half-contemptuous  glance  at  the  simple  untrav- 
elled  folk  about  them,  that  said  plainly  how  well 
he  knew  they  two  were  set  apart  from  them,  and 
she  shrank  fearfully  from  the  comradeship  that 
the  glance  implied  and  would  look  at  him  no 
more.  He  knew  everything  that  was  going  on  in 
the  mountains.  He  had  come  back  "ready  for 
business,"  he  said.  When  he  made  ready  to  go, 
June  went  to  her  room  and  stayed  there,  but  she 
heard  him  say  to  her  father  that  he  was  going  over 
to  the  Gap,  and  with  a  laugh  that  chilled  her  soul: 

"I'm  goin'  over  to  kill  me  a  policeman."  And 
her  father  warned  gruffly: 

"You  better  keep  away  from  thar.  You  don't 
understand  them  fellers."  And  she  heard  Rufe's 
brutal  laugh  again,  and  as  he  rode  into  the  creek 
his  horse  stumbled  and  she  saw  him  cut  cruelly  at 
the  poor  beast's  ears  with  the  rawhide  quirt  that 

296 


THE  TRAIL  OF  THE  LONESOME  PINE 

he  carried.  She  was  glad  when  all  went  home,  and 
the  only  ray  of  sunlight  in  the  day  for  her  radiated 
from  Uncle  Billy's  face  when,  at  sunset,  he  came 
to  take  old  Hon  home.  The  old  miller  was  the  one 
unchanged  soul  to  her  in  that  he  was  the  one  soul 
that  could  see  no  change  in  June.  He  called  her 
"baby"  in  the  old  way,  and  he  talked  to  her  now 
as  he  had  talked  to  her  as  a  child.  He  took  her 
aside  to  ask  her  if  she  knew  that  Hale  had  got  his 
license  to  marry,  and  when  she  shook  her  head, 
his  round,  red  face  lighted  up  with  the  benediction 
of  a  rising  sun: 

"Well,  that's  what  he's  done,  baby,  an'  he's 
axed  me  to  marry  ye,"  he  added,  with  boyish  pride, 
"he's  axed  me."  ' 

And  June  choked,  her  eyes  filled,  and  she  was 
dumb,  but  Uncle  Billy  could  not  see  that  it  meant 
distress  and  not  joy.  He  just  put  his  arm  around 
her  and  whispered: 

"I  ain't  told  a  soul,  baby — not  a  soul." 

She  went  to  bed  and  to  sleep  with  Hale's  face 
in  the  dream-mist  of  her  brain,  and  Uncle  Billy's, 
and  the  bold,  black  eyes  of  Bad  Rufe  Tolliver — all 
fused,  blurred,  indistinguishable.  Then  suddenly 
Rufe's  words  struck  that  brain,  word  by  word, 
like  the  clanging  terror  of  a  frightened  bell. 

"I'm  goin'  to  kill  me  a  policeman."  And  with 
the  last  word,  it  seemed,  she  sprang  upright  in 
bed,  clutching  the  coverlid  convulsively.  Daylight 
was  showing  gray  through  her  window.  She  heard 

297 


THE  TRAIL  OF  THE  LONESOME  PINE 

a  swift  step  up  the  steps,  across  the  porch,  the  rat- 
tle of  the  door-chain,  her  father's  quick  call,  then 
the  rumble  of  two  men's  voices,  and  she  knew  as 
well  what  had  happened  as  though  she  had  heard 
every  word  they  uttered.  Rufe  had  killed  him  a 
policeman — perhaps  John  Hale — and  with  terror 
clutching  her  heart  she  sprang  to  the  floor,  and  as 
she  dropped  the  old  purple  gown  over  her  shoul- 
ders, she  heard  the  scurry  of  feet  across  the  back 
porch — feet  that  ran  swiftly  but  cautiously,  and 
left  the  sound  of  them  at  the  edge  of  the  woods. 
She  heard  the  back  door  close  softly,  the  creaking 
of  the  bed  as  her  father  lay  down  again,  and  then 
a  sudden  splashing  in  the  creek.  Kneeling  at  the 
window,  she  saw  strange  horsemen  pushing  toward 
the  gate  where  one  threw  himself  from  his  saddle, 
strode  swiftly  toward  the  steps,  and  her  lips  un- 
consciously made  soft,  little,  inarticulate  cries  of 
joy — for  the  stern,  gray  face  under  the  hat  of  the 
man  was  the  face  of  John  Hale.  After  him  pushed 
other  men — fully  armed — whom  he  motioned  to 
either  side  of  the  cabin  to  the  rear.  By  his  side 
was  Bob  Berkley,  and  behind  him  was  a  red- 
headed Falin  whom  she  well  remembered.  Within 
twenty  feet,  she  was  looking  into  that  gray  face, 
when  the  set  lips  of  it  opened  in  a  loud  command: 
"Hello!"  She  heard  her  father's  bed  creak 
again,  again  the  rattle  of  the  door-chain,  and  then 
old  Judd  stepped  on  the  porch  with  a  revolver  in 
each  hand. 

298 


THE  TRAIL  OF  THE  LONESOME  PINE 


"Hello!"  he  answered  sternly. 

"Judd,"  said  Hale  sharply — and  June  had 
never  heard  that  tone  from  him  before — "a  man 
with  a  black  moustache  killed  one  of  our  men  over 
in  the  Gap  yesterday  and  we've  tracked  him  over 
here.  There's  his  horse — and  we  saw  him  go  into 
that  door.  We  want  him." 

"Do  you  know  who  the  feller  is?"  asked  old 
Judd  calmly. 

"No,"  said  Hale  quickly.  And  then,  with  equal 
calm: 

"Hit  was  my  brother,"  and  the  old  man's 
mouth  closed  like  a  vise.  Had  the  last  word  been 
a  stone  striking  his  ear,  Hale  could  hardly  have 
been  more  stunned.  Again  he  called  and  almost 
gently: 

"Watch  the  rear,  there,"  and  then  gently  he 
turned  to  Devil  Judd. 

"Judd,  your  brother  shot  a  man  at  the  Gap — 
without  excuse  or  warning.  He  was  an  officer  and 
a  friend  of  mine,  but  if  he  were  a  stranger — we 
want  him  just  the  same.  Is  he  here  ?" 

Judd  looked  at  the  red-headed  man  behind  Hale. 

"  So  you're  turned  on  the  Falin  side  now,  have 
ye  ?"  he  said  contemptuously. 

"Is  he  here?  "repeated  Hale. 

"Yes,  an' you  can't  have  him."  Without  a  move 
toward  his  pistol  Hale  stepped  forward,  and  June 
saw  her  father's  big  right  hand  tighten  on  his  huge 
pistol,  and  with  a  low  cry  she  sprang  to  her  feet. 

299 


THE  TRAIL  OF  THE  LONESOME  PINE 

"I'm  an  officer  of  the  law,"  Hale  said,  "stand 
aside,  Judd!"  Bub  leaped  to  the  door  with  a  Win- 
chester— his  eyes  wild  and  his  face  white. 

"Watch  out,  men!"  Hale  called,  and  as  the 
men  raised  their  guns  there  was  a  shriek  inside  the 
cabin  and  June  stood  at  Bub's  side,  barefooted, 
her  hair  tumbled  about  her  shoulders,  and  her 
hand  clutching  the  little  cross  at  her  throat. 

"Stop!"  she  shrieked.  "He  isn't  here.  He's— 
he's  gone!"  For  a  moment  a  sudden  sickness 
smote  Hale's  face,  then  Devil  Judd's  ruse  flashed 
to  him  and,  wheeling,  he  sprang  to  the  ground. 

"Quick!"  he  shouted,  with  a  sweep  of  his  hand 
right  and  left.  "Up  those  hollows!  Lead  those 
horses  up  to  the  Pine  and  wait.  Quick!" 

Already  the  men  were  running  as  he  directed 
and  Hale,  followed  by  Bob  and  the  Falin,  rushed 
around  the  corner  of  the  house.  Old  Judd's  nos- 
trils were  quivering,  and  with  his  pistols  dangling 
in  his  hands  he  walked  to  the  gate,  listening  to  the 
sounds  of  the  pursuit. 

"They'll  never  ketch  him,"  he  said,  coming 
back,  and  then  he  dropped  into  a  chair  and  sat  in 
silence  a  long  time.  June  reappeared,  her  face 
still  white  and  her  temples  throbbing,  for  the  sun 
was  rising  on  days  of  darkness  for  her.  Devil 
Judd  did  not  even  look  at  her. 

"I  reckon  you  ain't  goin'  to  marry  John  Hale." 

"No,  Dad,"  said  June. 


300 


XXV 

Fate  did  not  wait  until  Election  Day 
for  the  thing  Hale  most  dreaded — a  clash 
that  would  involve  the  guard  in  the  Tolliver-Falin 
troubles  over  the  hills.  There  had  been  simply  a 
preliminary  political  gathering  at  the  Gap  the  day 
before,  but  it  had  been  a  crucial  day  for  the  guard 
from  a  cloudy  sunrise  to  a  tragic  sunset.  Early 
that  morning,  Mockaby,  the  town-sergeant,  had 
stepped  into  the  street  freshly  shaven,  with  pol- 
ished boots,  and  in  his  best  clothes  for  the  eyes  of 
his  sweetheart,  who  was  to  come  up  that  day  to 
the  Gap  from  Lee.  Before  sunset  he  died  with 
those  boots  on,  while  the  sweetheart,  unknowing, 
was  bound  on  her  happy  way  homeward,  and 
Rufe  Tolliver,  who  had  shot  Mockaby,  was  clat- 
tering through  the  Gap  in  flight  for  Lonesome 
Cove. 

As  far  as  anybody  knew,  there  had  been  but 
one  Tolliver  and  one  Falin  in  town  that  day, 
though  many  had  noticed  the  tall  Western-looking 
stranger  who,  early  in  the  afternoon,  had  ridden 
across  the  bridge  over  the  North  Fork,  but  he  was 
quiet  and  well-behaved,  he  merged  into  the  crowd 
and  through  the  rest  of  the  afternoon  was  in  no 

301 


THE  TRAIL  OF  THE  LONESOME  PINE 

way  conspicuous,  even  when  the  one  Tolliver  and 
the  one  Falin  got  into  a  fight  in  front  of  the  speak- 
er's stand  and  the  riot  started  which  came  near 
ending  in  a  bloody  battle.  The  Falin  was  clearly 
blameless  and  was  let  go  at  once.  This  angered 
the  many  friends  of  the  Tolliver,  and  when  he  was 
arrested  there  was  an  attempt  at  rescue,  and  the 
Tolliver  was  dragged  to  the  calaboose  behind  a 
slowly  retiring  line  of  policemen,  who  were  jab- 
bing the  rescuers  back  with  the  muzzles  of  cocked 
Winchesters.  It  was  just  when  it  was  all  over, 
and  the  Tolliver  was  safely  jailed,  that  Bad  Rufe 
galloped  up  to  the  calaboose,  shaking  with  rage, 
for  he  had  just  learned  that  the  prisoner  was  a 
Tolliver.  He  saw  how  useless  interference  was, 
but  he  swung  from  his  horse,  threw  the  reins  over 
its  head  after  the  Western  fashion  and  strode  up 
to  Hale. 

"You  the  captain  of  this  guard  ?" 

"Yes,"  said  Hale;  "and  you?"  Rufe  shook 
his  head  with  angry  impatience,  and  Hale,  think- 
ing he  had  some  communication  to  make,  ignored 
his  refusal  to  answer. 

"I  hear  that  a  fellow  can't  blow  a  whistle  or 
holler,  or  shoot  off  his  pistol  in  this  town  without 
gittin'  arrested." 

"That's  true  — why?"  Rufe's  black  eyes 
gleamed  vindictively. 

"Nothin',"  he  said,  and  he  turned  to  his  horse. 

Ten  minutes  later,  as  Mockaby  was  passing 
302 


THE  TRAIL  OF  THE  LONESOME  PINE 

down  the  dummy  track,  a  whistle  was  blown  on 
the  river  bank,  a  high  yell  was  raised,  a  pistol  shot 
quickly  followed  and  he  started  for  the  sound  of 
them  on  a  run.  A  few  minutes  later  three  more 
pistol  shots  rang  out,  and  Hale  rushed  to  the  river 
bank  to  find  Mockaby  stretched  out  on  the  ground, 
dying,  and  a  mountaineer  lout  pointing  after  a 
man  on  horseback,  who  was  making  at  a  swift 
gallop  for  the  mouth  of  the  gap  and  the  hills. 

"  He  done  it,"  said  the  lout  in  a  frightened  way; 
"but  I  don.'t  know  who  he  was." 

Within  half  an  hour  ten  horsemen  were  clatter- 
ing after  the  murderer,  headed  by  Hale,  Logan, 
and  the  Infant  of  the  Guard.  Where  the  road 
forked,  a  woman  with  a  child  in  her  arms  said  she 
had  seen  a  tall,  black-eyed  man  with  a  black 
moustache  gallop  up  the  right  fork.  She  no  more 
knew  who  he  was  than  any  of  the  pursuers.  Three 
miles  up  that  fork  they  came  upon  a  red-headed 
man  leading  his  horse  from  a  mountaineer's 
yard. 

"He  went  up  the  mountain,"  the  red-haired 
man  said,  pointing  to  the  trail  of  the  Lonesome 
Pine.  "  He's  gone  over  the  line.  Whut's  he  done 
—killed  somebody?" 

"Yes,"  said  Hale  shortly,  starting  up  his  horse. 

"I  wish  I'd  a-knowed  you  was  atter  him.  I'm 
sheriff  over  thar." 

Now  they  were  without  warrant  or  requisition, 
and  Hale,  pulling  in,  said  sharply: 

3°3 


THE  TRAIL  OF  THE  LONESOME  PINE 

"We  want  that  fellow.  He  killed  a  man  at  the 
Gap.  If  we  catch  him  over  the  line,  we  want  you 
to  hold  him  for  us.  Come  along!"  The  red- 
headed sheriff  sprang  on  his  horse  and  grinned 
eagerly: 

"I'm  your  man." 

"Who  was  that  fellow?"  asked  Hale  as  they 
galloped.  The  sheriff  denied  knowledge  with  a 
shake  of  his  head. 

"What's  your  name?"  The  sheriff  looked 
sharply  at  him  for  the  effect  of  his  answer. 

"Jim  Falin."  And  Hale  looked  sharply  back  at 
him.  He  was  one  of  the  Falins  who  long,  long 
ago  had  gone  to  the  Gap  for  young  Dave  Tolliver, 
and  now  the  Falin  grinned  at  Hale. 

"I  know  you — all  right."  No  wonder  the  Falin 
chuckled  at  this  Heaven-born  chance  to  get  a  Tol- 
liver into  trouble. 

At  the  Lonesome  Pine  the  traces  of  the  fugi- 
tive's horse  swerved  along  the  mountain  top — the 
shoe  of  the  right  forefoot  being  broken  in  half. 
That  swerve  was  a  blind  and  the  sheriff  knew  it, 
but  he  knew  where  Rufe  Tolliver  would  go  and 
that  there  would  be  plenty  of  time  to  get  him. 
Moreover,  he  had  a  purpose  of  his  own  and  a  se- 
cret fear  that  it  might  be  thwarted,  so,  without  a 
word,  he  followed  the  trail  till  darkness  hid  it  and 
they  had  to  wait  until  the  moon  rose.  Then  as 
they  started  again,  the  sheriff  said : 

"Wait  a  minute,"  and  plunged  down  the  moun- 

3°4 


THE  TRAIL  OF  THE  LONESOME  PINE 

tain  side  on  foot.  A  few  minutes  later  he  hallooed 
for  Hale,  and  down  there  showed  him  the  tracks 
doubling  backward  along  a  foot-path. 

"Regular  rabbit,  ain't  he?"  chuckled  the  sher- 
iff, and  back  they  went  to  the  trail  again  on  which 
two  hundred  yards  below  the  Pine  they  saw  the 
tracks  pointing  again  to  Lonesome  Cove. 

On  down  the  trail  they  went,  and  at  the  top  of 
the  spur  that  overlooked  Lonesome  Cove,  the 
Falin  sheriff  pulled  in  suddenly  and  got  off  his 
horse.  There  the  tracks  swerved  again  into  the 
bushes. 

"He's  goin'  to  wait  till  daylight,  fer  fear  some- 
body's follered  him.  He'll  come  in  back  o'  Devil 
Judd's." 

"  How  do  you  know  he's  going  to  Devil  Judd's  ? " 
asked  Hale. 

"  Whar  else  would  he  go  ?"  asked  the  Falin  with 
a  sweep  of  his  arm  toward  the  moonlit  wilderness. 
"Thar  ain't  but  one  house  that  way  fer  ten  miles 
— and  nobody  lives  thar." 

"How  do  you  know  that  he's  going  to  any 
house?"  asked  Hale  impatiently.  "He  may  be 
getting  out  of  the  mountains." 

"  D'you  ever  know  a  feller  to  leave  these  moun- 
tains jus'  because  he'd  killed  a  man  ?  How'd  you 
foller  him  at  night  ?  How'd  you  ever  ketch  him 
with  his  start  ?  What'd  he  turn  that  way  fer,  if  he 
wasn't  goin'  to  Judd's — why  d'n't  he  keep  on 
down  the  river  ?  If  he's  gone,  he's  gone.  If  he 

305 


THE  TRAIL  OF  THE  LONESOME  PINE 

ain't,  he'll  be  at  Devil  JudcTs  at  daybreak  if  he 
ain't  thar  now." 

"What  do  you  want  to  do  ?" 

"Go  on  down  with  the  hosses,  hide  'em  in  the 
bushes  an'  wait." 

"Maybe  he's  already  heard  us  coming  down 
the  mountain." 

"That's  the  only  thing  I'm  afeerd  of,"  said  the 
Falin  calmly.  "But  whut  I'm  tellin'  you's  our 
only  chance." 

"How  do  you  know  he  won't  hear  us  going 
down  ?  Why  not  leave  the  horses  ?" 

"We  might  need  the  hosses,  and  hit's  mud  and 
sand  all  the  way — you  ought  to  know  that." 

Hale  did  know  that;  so  on  they  went  quietly 
and  hid  their  horses  aside  from  the  road  near  the 
place  where  Hale  had  fished  when  he  first  went  to 
Lonesome  Cove.  There  the  Falin  disappeared 
on  foot. 

"Do  you  trust  him?"  asked  Hale,  turning  to 
Budd,  and  Budd  laughed. 

"I  reckon  you  can  trust  a  Falin  against  a  friend 
of  a  Tolliver,  or  t'other  way  round — any  time." 

Within  half  an  hour  the  Falin  came  back  with 
the  news  that  there  were  no  signs  that  the  fugitive 
had  yet  come  in. 

"No  use  surrounding  the  house  now,"  he  said, 
"he  might  see  one  of  us  first  when  he  comes  in  an' 
git  away.  We'll  do  that  atter  daylight." 

And  at  daylight  they  saw  the  fugitive  ride  out 
306 


THE  TRAIL  OF  THE  LONESOME  PINE 

of  the  woods  at  the  back  of  the  house  and  boldly 
around  to  the  front  of  the  house,  where  he  left  his 
horse  in  the  yard  and  disappeared. 

"  Now  send  three  men  to  ketch  him  if  he  runs 
out  the  back  way — quick ! "  said  the  Falin.  "  Hit'll 
take  'em  twenty  minutes  to  git  thar  through  the 
woods.  Soon's  they  git  thar,  let  one  of  'em  shoot 
his  pistol  off  an'  that'll  be  the  signal  fer  us." 

The  three  men  started  swiftly,  but  the  pistol 
shot  came  before  they  had  gone  a  hundred  yards, 
for  one  of  the  three — a  new  man  and  unaccustomed 
to  the  use  of  fire-arms,  stumbled  over  a  root  while 
he  was  seeing  that  his  pistol  was  in  order  and  let 
it  go  off  accidentally. 

"No  time  to  waste  now,"  the  Falin  called 
sharply.  "Git  on  yo'  bosses  and  git!"  Then  the 
rush  was  made  and  when  they  gave  up  the  chase 
at  noon  that  day,  the  sheriff  looked  Hale  squarely 
in  the  eye  when  Hale  sharply  asked  him  a  question: 

"Why  didn't  you  tell  me  who  that  man  was  ?" 

"  Because  I  was  afeerd  you  wouldn't  go  to  Devil 
Judd's  atter  him.  I  know  better  now,"  and  he 
shook  his  head,  for  he  did  not  understand.  And 
so  Hale  at  the  head  of  the  disappointed  Guard 
went  back  to  the  Gap,  and  when,  next  day,  they 
laid  Mockaby  away  in  the  thinly  populated  little 
graveyard  that  rested  in  the  hollow  of  the  river's 
arm,  the  spirit  of  law  and  order  in  the  heart  of  every 
guard  gave  way  to  the  spirit  of  revenge,  and  the 
grass  would  grow  under  the  feet  of  none  until 

3°7 


THE  TRAIL  OF  THE  LONESOME  PINE 

Rufe  Tolliver  was  caught  and  the  death-debt  of 
the  law  was  paid  with  death. 

That  purpose  was  no  less  firm  in  the  heart  of 
Hale,  and  he  turned  away  from  the  grave,  sick 
with  the  trick  that  Fate  had  lost  no  time  in  playing 
him;  for  he  was  a  Falin  now  in  the  eyes  of  both 
factions  and  an  enemy — even  to  June. 

The  weeks  dragged  slowly  along,  and  June  sank 
slowly  toward  the  depths  with  every  fresh  realiza- 
tion of  the  trap  of  circumstance  into  which  she  had 
fallen.  She  had  dim  memories  of  just  such  a  state 
of  affairs  when  she  was  a  child,  for  the  feud  was 
on  now  and  the  three  things  that  governed  the  life 
of  the  cabin  in  Lonesome  Cove  were  hate,  caution, 
and  fear. 

Bub  and  her  father  worked  in  the  fields  with 
their  Winchesters  close  at  hand,  and  June  was 
never  easy  if  they  were  outside  the  house.  If  some- 
body shouted  "hello" — that  universal  hail  of 
friend  or  enemy  in  the  mountains — from  the  gate 
after  dark,  one  or  the  other  would  go  out  the  back 
door  and  answer  from  the  shelter  of  the  corner  of 
the  house.  Neither  sat  by  the  light  of  the  fire 
where  he  could  be  seen  through  the  window  nor 
carried  a  candle  from  one  room  to  the  other. 
And  when  either  rode  down  the  river,  June  must 
ride  behind  him  to  prevent  ambush  from  the 
bushes,  for  no  Kentucky  mountaineer,  even  to  kill 
his  worst  enemy,  will  risk  harming  a  woman. 
Sometimes  Loretta  would  come  and  spend  the  day, 

308 


THE  TRAIL  OF  THE  LONESOME  PINE 

and  she  seemed  little  less  distressed  than  June. 
Dave  was  constantly  in  and  out,  and  several  times 
June  had  seen  the  Red  Fox  hanging  around.  Al- 
ways the  talk  was  of  the  feud.  The  killing  of  this 
Tolliver  and  of  that  long  ago  was  rehearsed  over 
and  over;  all  the  wrongs  the  family  had  suffered 
at  the  hands  of  the  Falins  were  retold,  and  in  spite 
of  herself  June  felt  the  old  hatred  of  her  childhood 
reawakening  against  them  so  fiercely  that  she  was 
startled :  and  she  knew  that  if  she  were  a  man  she 
would  be  as  ready  now  to  take  up  a  Winchester 
against  the  Falins  as  though  she  had  known  no 
other  life. 

Loretta  got  no  comfort  from  her  in  her  tentative 
efforts  to  talk  of  Buck  Falin,  and  once,  indeed, 
June  gave  her  a  scathing  rebuke.  With  every  day 
her  feeling  for  her  father  and  Bub  was  knit  a  little 
more  closely,  and  toward  Dave  grew  a  little  more 
kindly.  She  had  her  moods  even  against  Hale, 
but  they  always  ended  in  a  storm  of  helpless  tears. 
Her  father  said  little  of  Hale,  but  that  little  was 
enough.  Young  Dave  was  openly  exultant  when 
he  heard  of  the  favouritism  shown  a  Falin  by  the 
Guard  at  the  Gap,  the  effort  Hale  had  made  to 
catch  Rufe  Tolliver  and  his  well-known  purpose 
yet  to  capture  him;  for  the  Guard  maintained  a 
fund  for  the  arrest  and  prosecution  of  criminals, 
and  the  reward  it  offered  for  Rufe,  dead  or  alive, 
was  known  by  everybody  on  both  sides  of  the 
State  line.  For  nearly  a  week  no  word  was  heard 

3°9 


THE  TRAIL  OF  THE  LONESOME  PINE 

of  the  fugitive,  and  then  one  night,  after  supper, 
while  June  was  sitting  at  the  fire,  the  back  door 
was  opened,  Rufe  slid  like  a  snake  within,  and 
when  June  sprang  to  her  feet  with  a  sharp  cry  of 
terror,  he  gave  his  brutal  laugh : 

"Don't  take  much  to  skeer  you — does  it?" 
Shuddering  she  felt  his  evil  eyes  sweep  her  from 
head  to  foot,  for  the  beast  within  was  always  un- 
leashed and  ever  ready  to  spring,  and  she  dropped 
back  into  her  seat,  speechless.  Young  Dave,  en- 
tering from  the  kitchen,  saw  Rufe's  look  and  the 
hostile  lightning  of  his  own  eyes  flashed  at  his 
foster-uncle,  who  knew  straightway  that  he  must 
not  for  his  own  safety  strain  the  boy's  jealousy  too 
far. 

"You  oughtn't  to  'a'  done  it,  Rufe,"  said  old 
Judd  a  little  later,  and  he  shook  his  head.  Again 
Rufe  laughed : 

"No — "  he  said  with  a  quick  pacificatory  look 
to  young  Dave,  "not  to  him!'9  The  swift  gritting 
of  Dave's  teeth  showed  that  he  knew  what  was 
meant,  and  without  warning  the  instinct  of  a  pro- 
tecting tigress  leaped  within  June.  She  had  seen 
and  had  been  grateful  for  the  look  Dave  gave  the 
outlaw,  but  without  a  word  she  rose  now  and  went 
to  her  own  room.  While  she  sat  at  her  window,  her 
step-mother  came  out  the  back  door  and  left  it 
open  for  a  moment.  Through  it  June  could  hear 
the  talk: 

"No,"  said  her  father,  "she  ain't  goin'  to  marry 
310 


THE  TRAIL  OF  THE  LONESOME  PINE 

him."  Dave  grunted  and  Rufe's  voice  came 
again : 

"  Ain't  no  danger,  I  reckon,  of  her  tellin'  on  me  ? " 

"No,"  said  her  father  gruffly,  and  the  door 
banged. 

No,  thought  June,  she  wouldn't,  even  without 
her  father's  trust,  though  she  loathed  the  man,  and 
he  was  the  only  thing  on  earth  of  which  she  was 
afraid — that  was  the  miracle  of  it  and  June  won- 
dered. She  was  a  Tolliver  and  the  clan  loyalty  of 
a  century  forbade — that  was  all.  As  she  rose  she 
saw  a  figure  skulking  past  the  edge  of  the  woods. 
She  called  Bub  in  and  told  him  about  it,  and  Rufe 
stayed  at  the  cabin  all  night,  but  June  did  not  see 
him  next  morning,  and  she  kept  out  of  his  way 
whenever  he  came  again.  A  few  nights  later  the 
Red  Fox  slouched  up  to  the  cabin  with  some  herbs 
for  the  step-mother.  Old  Judd  eyed  him  askance. 

"Lookin'  fer  that  reward,  Red  ?"  The  old  man 
had  no  time  for  the  meek  reply  that  was  on  his  lips, 
for  the  old  woman  spoke  up  sharply: 

"You  let  Red  alone,  Judd — I  tol'  him  to  come." 
And  the  Red  Fox  stayed  to  supper,  and  when 
Rufe  left  the  cabin  that  night,  a  bent  figure  with  a 
big  rifle  and  in  moccasins  sneaked  after  him. 

The  next  night  there  was  a  tap  on  Hale's  win- 
dow just  at  his  bedside,  and  when  he  looked  out  he 
saw  the  Red  Fox's  big  rifle,  telescope,  moccasins 
and  all  in  the  moonlight.  The  Red  Fox  had  dis- 
covered the  whereabouts  of  Rufe  Tolliver,  and 


THE  TRAIL  OF  THE  LONESOME  PINE 

that  very  night  he  guided  Hale  and  six  of  the 
guard  to  the  edge  of  a  little  clearing  where  the 
Red  Fox  pointed  to  a  one-roomed  cabin,  quiet  in 
the  moonlight.  Hale  had  his  requisition  now. 

"Ain't  no  trouble  ketchin'  Rufe,  if  you  bait 
him  with  a  woman,"  he  snarled.  "There  mought 
be  several  Tollivers  in  thar.  Wait  till  daybreak 
and  git  the  drap  on  him,  when  he  comes  out." 
And  then  he  disappeared. 

Surrounding  the  cabin,  Hale  waited,  and  on  top 
of  the  mountain,  above  Lonesome  Cove,  the  Red 
Fox  sat  waiting  and  watching  through  his  big  tele- 
scope. Through  it  he  saw  Bad  Rufe  step  outside 
the  door  at  daybreak  and  stretch  his  arms  with  a 
yawn,  and  he  saw  three  men  spring  with  levelled 
Winchesters  from  behind  a  clump  of  bushes.  The 
woman  shot  from  the  door  behind  Rufe  with  a 
pistol  in  each  hand,  but  Rufe  kept  his  hands  in  the 
air  and  turned  his  head  to  the  woman  who  lowered 
the  half-raised  weapons  slowly.  When  he  saw  the 
cavalcade  start  for  the  county  seat  with  Rufe 
manacled  in  the  midst  of  them,  he  dropped  swiftly 
down  into  Lonesome  Cove  to  tell  Judd  that  Rufe 
was  a  prisoner  and  to  retake  him  on  the  way  to 
jail.  And,  as  the  Red  Fox  well  knew  would  hap- 
pen, old  Judd  and  young  Dave  and  two  other 
Tollivers  who  were  at  the  cabin  galloped  into 
the  county  seat  to  find  Rufe  in  jail,  and  that  jail 
guarded  by  seven  grim  young  men  armed  with 
Winchesters  and  shot-guns. 

312 


THE  TRAIL  OF  THE  LONESOME  PINE 

Hale  faced  the  old  man  quietly — eye  to  eye. 
"It's  no  use,  Judd,"  he  said,  "you'd  better  let 
the  law  take  its  course."    The  old  man  was  scorn- 

fid. 

"Thar's  never  been  a  Tolliver  convicted  of 
killin'  nobody,  much  less  hung — an*  thar  ain't 
goin'  to  be." 

"I'm  glad  you  warned  me,"  said  Hale  still 
quietly,  "  though  it  wasn't  necessary.  But  if  he's 
convicted,  he'll  hang." 

The  giant's  face  worked  in  convulsive  helpless- 
ness and  he  turned  away. 

"You  hold   the  cyards  now,   but  my  deal  is 


comm'.3 


"All  right,  Judd — you're  getting  a  square  one 
from  me." 

Back  rode  the  Tollivers  and  Devil  Judd  never 
opened  his  lips  again  until  he  was  at  home  in 
Lonesome  Cove.  June  was  sitting  on  the  porch 
when  he  walked  heavy-headed  through  the  gate. 

"They've  ketched  Rufe,"  he  said,  and  after 
a  moment  he  added  gruffly: 

"Thar's  goin'  to  be  sure  enough  trouble  now. 
The  Falins'll  think  all  them  police  fellers  air  on 
their  side  now.  This  ain't  no  place  fer  you — you 
must  git  away." 

June  shook  her  head  and  her  eyes  turned  to  the 
flowers  at  the  edge  of  the  garden : 

"I'm  not  goin'  away,  Dad,"  she  said. 


313 


XXVI 

"DACK  to  the  passing  of  Boone  and  the  landing 
"^  of  Columbus  no  man,  in  that  region,  had 
ever  been  hanged.  And  as  old  Judd  said,  no  Tol- 
liver  had  ever  been  sentenced  and  no  jury  of 
mountain  men,  he  well  knew,  could  be  found  who 
would  convict  a  Tolliver,  for  there  were  no  twelve 
men  in  the  mountains  who  would  dare.  And  so 
the  Tollivers  decided  to  await  the  outcome  of  the 
trial  and  rest  easy.  But  they  did  not  count  on  the 
mettle  and  intelligence  of  the  grim  young  "fur- 
riners"  who  were  a  flying  wedge  of  civilization  at 
the  Gap.  Straightway,  they  gave  up  the  practice 
of  law  and  banking  and  trading  and  store-keeping 
and  cut  port-holes  in  the  brick  walls  of  the  Court 
House  and  guarded  town  and  jail  night  and  day. 
They  brought  their  own  fearless  judge,  their  own 
fearless  jury  and  their  own  fearless  guard.  Such 
an  abstract  regard  for  law  and  order  the  moun- 
taineer finds  a  hard  thing  to  understand.  It 
looked  as  though  the  motive  of  the  Guard  was  vin- 
dictive and  personal,  and  old  Judd  was  almost 
stifled  by  the  volcanic  rage  that  daily  grew  within 
him  as  the  toils  daily  tightened  about  Rufe  Tolliver. 
Every  happening  the  old  man  learned  through 


THE  TRAIL  OF  THE  LONESOME  PINE 

the  Red  Fox,  who,  with  his  huge  pistols,  was  one  of 
the  men  who  escorted  Rufe  to  and  from  Court 
House  and  jail — a  volunteer,  Hale  supposed,  be- 
cause he  hated  Rufe;  and,  as  the  Tollivers  sup- 
posed, so  that  he  could  keep  them  advised  of 
everything  that  went  on,  which  he  did  with  se- 
crecy and  his  own  peculiar  faith.  And  steadily  and 
to  the  growing  uneasiness  of  the  Tollivers,  the 
law  went  its  way.  Rufe  had  proven  that  he  was 
at  the  Gap  all  day  and  had  taken  no  part  in  the 
trouble.  He  produced  a  witness — the  mountain 
lout  whom  Hale  remembered — who  admitted  that 
he  had  blown  the  whistle,  given  the  yell,  and  fired 
the  pistol  shot.  When  asked  his  reason,  the  wit- 
ness, who  was  stupid,  had  none  ready,  looked 
helplessly  at  Rufe  and  finally  mumbled — "fer 
fun."  But  it  was  plain  from  the  questions  that 
Rufe  had  put  to  Hale  only  a  few  minutes  before 
the  shooting,  and  from  the  hesitation  of  the  witness, 
that  Rufe  had  used  him  for  a  tool.  So  the  testi- 
mony of  the  latter  that  Mockaby  without  even 
summoning  Rufe  to  surrender  had  fired  first,  car- 
ried no  conviction.  And  yet  Rufe  had  no  trouble 
making  it  almost  sure  that  he  had  never  seen  the 
dead  man  before — so  what  was  his  motive  ?  It 
was  then  that  word  reached  the  ear  of  the  prose- 
cuting attorney  of  the  only  testimony  that  could 
establish  a  motive  and  make  the  crime  a  hanging 
offence,  and  Court  was  adjourned  for  a  day,  while 
he  sent  for  the  witness  who  could  give  it.  That 

315 


THE  TRAIL  OF  THE  LONESOME  PINE 

afternoon  one  of  the  Falins,  who  had  grown  bolder, 
and  in  twos  and  threes  were  always  at  the  trial, 
shot  at  a  Tolliver  on  the  edge  of  town  and  there 
was  an  immediate  turmoil  between  the  factions 
that  the  Red  Fox  had  been  waiting  for  and  that 
suited  his  dark  purposes  well. 

That  very  night,  with  his  big  rifle,  he  slipped 
through  the  woods  to  a  turn  of  the  road,  over  which 
old  Dave  Tolliver  was  to  pass  next  morning,  and 
built  a  "blind"  behind  some  rocks  and  lay  there 
smoking  peacefully  and  dreaming  his  Swedenbor- 
gian  dreams.  And  when  a  wagon  came  round  the 
turn,  driven  by  a  boy,  and  with  the  gaunt  frame  of 
old  Dave  Tolliver  lying  on  straw  in  the  bed  of  it, 
his  big  rifle  thundered  and  the  frightened  horses 
dashed  on  with  the  Red  Fox's  last  enemy,  lifeless. 
Coolly  he  slipped  back  to  the  woods,  threw  the 
shell  from  his  gun,  tirelessly  he  went  by  short  cuts 
through  the  hills,  and  at  noon,  benevolent  and 
smiling,  he  was  on  guard  again. 

The  little  Court  Room  was  crowded  for  the 
afternoon  session.  Inside  the  railing  sat  Rufe 
Tolliver,  white  and  defiant — manacled.  Leaning 
on  the  railing,  to  one  side,  was  the  Red  Fox  with 
his  big  pistols,  his  good  profile  calm,  dreamy,  kind 
— to  the  other,  similarly  armed,  was  Hale.  At  each 
of  the  gaping  port-holes,  and  on  each  side  of  the 
door,  stood  a  guard  with  a  Winchester,  and  around 
the  railing  outside  were  several  more.  In  spite  of 
window  and  port-hole  the  air  was  close  and  heavy 

316 


THE  TRAIL  OF  THE  LONESOME  PINE 

with  the  smell  of  tobacco  and  the  sweat  of  men. 
Here  and  there  in  the  crowd  was  a  red  Falin,  but 
not  a  Tolliver  was  in  sight,  and  Rufe  Tolliver  sat 
alone.  The  clerk  called  the  Court  to  order  after 
the  fashion  since  the  days  before  Edward  the  Con- 
fessor— except  that  he  asked  God  to  save  a  com- 
monwealth instead  of  a  king — and  the  prosecuting 
attorney  rose: 

"Next  witness,  may  it  please  your  Honour": 
and  as  the  clerk  got  to  his  feet  with  a  slip  of  paper 
in  his  hand  and  bawled  out  a  name,  Hale  wheeled 
with  a  thumping  heart.  The  crowd  vibrated, 
turned  heads,  gave  way,  and  through  the  human 
aisle  walked  June  Tolliver  with  the  sheriff  follow- 
ing meekly  behind.  At  the  railing-gate  she  stop- 
ped, head  uplifted,  face  pale  and  indignant;  and 
her  eyes  swept  past  Hale  as  if  he  were  no  more 
than  a  wooden  image,  and  were  fixed  with  proud 
inquiry  on  the  Judge's  face.  She  was  bare- 
headed, her  bronze  hair  was  drawn  low  over  her 
white  brow,  her  gown  was  of  purple  home-spun, 
and  her  right  hand  was  clenched  tight  about  the 
chased  silver  handle  of  a  riding  whip,  and  in  eyes, 
mouth,  and  in  every  line  of  her  tense  figure  was  the 
mute  question:  "Why  have  you  brought  me 
here?" 

"  Here,  please,"  said  the  Judge  gently,  as  though 
he  were  about  to  answer  that  question,  and  as  she 
passed  Hale  she  seemed  to  swerve  her  skirts  aside 
that  they  might  not  touch  him. 

317 


THE  TRAIL  OF  THE  LONESOME  PINE 

"Swear  her." 

June  lifted  her  right  hand,  put  her  lips  to  the 
soiled,  old,  black  Bible  and  faced  the  jury  and 
Hale  and  Bad  Rufe  Tolliver  whose  black  eyes 
never  left  her  face. 

"What  is  your  name  ?"  asked  a  deep  voice  that 
struck  her  ears  as  familiar,  and  before  she  an- 
swered she  swiftly  recalled  that  she  had  heard  that 
voice  speaking  when  she  entered  the  door. 

"June  Tolliver." 

"Your  age  ?" 

"Eighteen." 

"You  live " 

"In  Lonesome  Cove." 

"You  are  the  daughter  of " 

"Judd  Tolliver." 

"Do  you  know  the  prisoner  ?" 

"He  is  my  foster-uncle." 

"  Were  you  at  home  on  the  night  of  August  the 
tenth?" 

"I  was." 

"  Have  you  ever  heard  the  prisoner  express  any 
enmity  against  this  volunteer  Police  Guard?" 
He  waved  his  hand  toward  the  men  at  the  port- 
holes and  about  the  railing — unconsciously  leav- 
ing his  hand  directly  pointed  at  Hale.  June  hesi- 
tated and  Rufe  leaned  one  elbow  on  the  table,  and 
the  light  in  his  eyes  beat  with  fierce  intensity  into 
the  girl's  eyes  into  which  came  a  curious  frightened 
look  that  Hale  remembered — the  same  look  she 

318 


Why  have  you  brought  me  here?' 


THE  TRAIL  OF  THE  LONESOME  PINE 

had  shown  long  ago  when  Rufe's  name  was  men- 
tioned in  the  old  miller's  cabin,  and  when  going  up 
the  river  road  she  had  put  her  childish  trust  in 
him  to  see  that  her  bad  uncle  bothered  her  no 
more.  Hale  had  never  forgot  that,  and  if  it  had 
not  been  absurd  he  would  have  stopped  the  pris- 
oner from  staring  at  her  now.  An  anxious  look 
had  come  into  Rufe's  eyes — would  she  lie  for  him  ? 

"Never,"  said  June.  Ah,  she  would — she  was 
a  Tolliver  and  Rufe  took  a  breath  of  deep  content. 

"You  never  heard  him  express  any  enmity 
toward  the  Police  Guard — before  that  night?" 

"I  have  answered  that  question,"  said  June 
with  dignity  and  Rufe's  lawyer  was  on  his  feet. 

"Your  Honour,  I  object,"  he  said  indignantly. 

"  I  apologize,"  said  the  deep  voice — "  sincerely," 
and  he  bowed  to  June.  Then  very  quietly: 

"What  was  the  last  thing  you  heard  the  prisoner 
say  that  afternoon  when  he  left  your  father's 
house?" 

It  had  come — how  well  she  remembered  just 
what  he  had  said  and  how,  that  night,  even  when 
she  was  asleep,  Rufe's  words  had  clanged  like  a 
bell  in  her  brain — what  her  awakening  terror  was 
when  she  knew  that  the  deed  was  done  and  the 
stifling  fear  that  the  victim  might  be  Hale.  Swiftly 
her  mind  worked — somebody  had  blabbed,  her 
step-mother,  perhaps,  and  what  Rufe  had  said 
had  reached  a  Falin  ear  and  come  to  the  relent- 
less man  in  front  of  her.  She  remembered,  too, 

319 


THE  TRAIL  OF  THE  LONESOME  PINE 

now,  what  the  deep  voice  was  saying  as  she  came 
into  the  door: 

"There  must  be  deliberation,  a  malicious  pur- 
pose proven  to  make  the  prisoner's  crime  a  capital 
offence — I  admit  that,  of  course,  your  Honour. 
Very  well,  we  propose  to  prove  that  now,"  and 
then  she  had  heard  her  name  called.  The  proof 
that  was  to  send  Rufe  Tolliver  to  the  scaffold  was 
to  come  from  her — that  was  why  she  was  there. 
Her  lips  opened  and  Rufe's  eyes,  like  a  snake's, 
caught  her  own  again  and  held  them. 

"He  said  he  was  going  over  to  the  Gap " 

There  was  a  commotion  at  the  door,  again  the 
crowd  parted,  and  in  towered  giant  Judd  Tolliver, 
pushing  people  aside  as  though  they  were  straws, 
his  bushy  hair  wild  and  his  great  frame  shaking 
from  head  to  foot  with  rage. 

"You  went  to  my  house,"  he  rumbled  hoarsely 
— glaring  at  Hale — "an*  took  my  gal  thar  when  I 
wasn't  at  home — you " 

"Order  in  the  Court/'  said  the  Judge  sternly, 
but  already  at  a  signal  from  Hale  several  guards 
were  pushing  through  the  crowd  and  old  Judd  saw 
them  coming  and  saw  the  Falins  about  him  and 
the  Winchesters  at  the  port-holes,  and  he  stopped 
with  a  hard  gulp  and  stood  looking  at  June. 

"  Repeat  his  exact  words,"  said  the  deep  voice 
again  as  calmly  as  though  nothing  had  happened. 

"He  said,  'I'm  goin'  over  to  the  Gap—  "  and 
still  Rufe's  black  eyes  held  her  with  mesmeric 

320 


THE  TRAIL  OF  THE  LONESOME  PINE 

power — would  she  lie  for  him — would  she  lie  for 
him  ? 

It  was  a  terrible  struggle  for  June.  Her  father 
was  there,  her  uncle  Dave  was  dead,  her  foster- 
uncle's  life  hung  on  her  next  words  and  she  was 
a  Tolliver.  Yet  she  had  given  her  oath,  she  had 
kissed  the  sacred  Book  in  which  she  believed  from 
cover  to  cover  with  her  whole  heart,  and  she  could 
feel  upon  her  the  blue  eyes  of  a  man  for  whom 
a  lie  was  impossible  and  to  whom  she  had  never 
stained  her  white  soul  with  a  word  of  untruth. 

"Yes,"  encouraged  the  deep  voice  kindly. 

Not  a  soul  in  the  room  knew  where  the  struggle 
lay — not  even  the  girl — for  it  lay  between  the 
black  eyes  of  Rufe  Tolliver  and  the  blue  eyes  of 
John  Hale. 

"Yes,"  repeated  the  deep  voice  again.  Again, 
with  her  eyes  on  Rufe,  she  repeated : 

"'I'm  goin'  over  to  the  Gap—  her  face 
turned  deadly  white,  she  shivered,  her  dark  eyes 
swerved  suddenly  full  on  Hale  and  she  said  slowly 
and  distinctly,  yet  hardly  above  a  whisper: 

"To  kill  me  a  policeman.'" 

"That  will  do,"  said  the  deep  voice  gently,  and 
Hale  started  toward  her — she  looked  so  deadly 
sick  and  she  trembled  so  when  she  tried  to  rise; 
but  she  saw  him,  her  mouth  steadied,  she  rose, 
and  without  looking  at  him,  passed  by  his  out- 
stretched hand  and  walked  slowly  out  of  the  Court 
Room. 

321 


XXVII 

miracle  had  happened.  The  Tollivers, 
following  the  Red  Fox's  advice  to  make  no 
attempt  at  rescue  just  then,  had  waited,  expecting 
the  old  immunity  from  the  law  and  getting  instead 
the  swift  sentence  that  Rufe  Tolliver  should  be 
hanged  by  the  neck  until  he  was  dead.  Astounding 
and  convincing  though  the  news  was,  no  moun- 
taineer believed  he  would  ever  hang,  and  Rufe 
himself  faced  the  sentence  defiant.  He  laughed 
when  he  was  led  back  to  his  cell: 

"I'll  never  hang,"  he  said  scornfully.  They 
were  the  first  words  that  came  from  his  lips,  and 
the  first  words  that  came  from  old  Judd's  when 
the  news  reached  him  in  Lonesome  Cove,  and  that 
night  old  Judd  gathered  his  clan  for  the  rescue — 
to  learn  next  morning  that  during  the  night  Rufe 
had  been  spirited  away  to  the  capital  for  safe- 
keeping until  the  fatal  day.  And  so  there  was 
quiet  for  a  while — old  Judd  making  ready  for  the 
day  when  Rufe  should  be  brought  back,  and  trying 
to  find  out  who  it  was  that  had  slain  his  brother 
Dave.  The  Falins  denied  the  deed,  but  old  Judd 
never  questioned  that  one  of  them  was  the  mur- 
derer, and  he  came  out  openly  now  and  made  no 

322 


THE  TRAIL  OF  THE  LONESOME  PINE 

secret  of  the  fact  that  he  meant  to  have  revenge. 
And  so  the  two  factions  went  armed,  watchful  and 
wary — especially  the  Falins,  who  were  lying  low 
and  waiting  to  fulfil  a  deadly  purpose  of  their  own. 
They  well  knew  that  old  Judd  would  not  open  hos- 
tilities on  them  until  Rufe  Tolliver  was  dead  or  at 
liberty.  They  knew  that  the  old  man  meant  to 
try  to  rescue  Rufe  when  he  was  brought  back  to 
jail  or  taken  from  it  to  the  scaffold,  and  when 
either  day  came  they  themselves  would  take  a 
hand,  thus  giving  the  Tollivers  at  one  and  the  same 
time  two  sets  of  foes.  And  so  through  the  golden 
September  days  the  two  clans  waited,  and  June 
Tolliver  went  with  dull  determination  back  to  her 
old  life,  for  Uncle  Billy's  sister  had  left  the  house  in 
fear  and  she  could  get  no  help — milking  cows  at 
cold  dawns,  helping  in  the  kitchen,  spinning  flax 
and  wool,  and  weaving  them  into  rough  garments 
for  her  father  and  step-mother  and  Bub,  and  in 
time,  she  thought  grimly — for  herself:  for  not  an- 
other cent  for  her  maintenance  could  now  come 
from  John  Hale,  even  though  he  claimed  it  was 
hers — even  though  it  was  in  truth  her  own.  Never, 
but  once,  had  Male's  name  been  mentioned  in  the 
cabin — never,  but  once,  had  her  father  referred  to 
the  testimony  that  she  had  given  against  Rufe 
Tolliver,  for  the  old  man  put  upon  Hale  the  fact 
that  the  sheriff  had  sneaked  into  his  house  when 
he  was  away  and  had  taken  June  to  Court,  and 
that  was  the  crowning  touch  of  bitterness  in  his 

323 


THE  TRAIL  OF  THE  LONESOME  PINE 

growing  hatred  for  the  captain  of  the  guard  of 
whom  he  had  once  been  so  fond. 

"Course  you  had  to  tell  the  truth,  baby,  when 
they  got  you  there,"  he  said  kindly;  "but  kidnap- 
pin'  you  that-a-way — "  He  shook  his  great  bushy 
head  from  side  to  side  and  dropped  it  into  his 
hands. 

"I  reckon  that  damn  Hale  was  the  man  who 
found  out  that  you  heard  Rufe  say  that.  I'd  like 
to  know  how — I'd  like  to  git  my  hands  on  the  fel- 
ler as  told  him." 

June  opened  her  lips  in  simple  justice  to  clear 
Hale  of  that  charge,  but  she  saw  such  a  terrified 
appeal  in  her  step-mother's  face  that  she  kept  her 
peace,  let  Hale  suffer  for  that,  too,  and  walked  out 
into  her  garden.  Never  once  had  her  piano  been 
opened,  her  books  had  lain  unread,  and  from  her 
lips,  during  those  days,  came  no  song.  When  she 
was  not  at  work,  she  was  brooding  in  her  room, 
or  she  would  walk  down  to  Uncle  Billy's  and  sit 
at  the  mill  with  him  while  the  old  man  would  talk 
in  tender  helplessness,  or  under  the  honeysuckle 
vines  with  old  Hon,  whose  brusque  kindness  was 
of  as  little  avail.  And  then,  still  silent,  she  would 
get  wearily  up  and  as  quietly  go  away  while  the 
two  old  friends,  worried  to  the  heart,  followed  her 
sadly  with  their  eyes.  At  other  times  she  was 
brooding  in  her  room  or  sitting  in  her  garden, 
where  she  was  now,  and  where  she  found  most  com- 
fort— the  garden  that  Hale  had  planted  for  her — 

324 


THE  TRAIL  OF  THE  LONESOME  PINE 

where  purple  asters  leaned  against  lilac  shrubs 
that  would  flower  for  the  first  time  the  coming 
spring;  where  a  late  rose  bloomed,  and  marigolds 
drooped,  and  great  sunflowers  nodded  and  giant 
castor-plants  stretched  out  their  hands  of  Christ. 
And  while  June  thus  waited  the  passing  of  the 
days,  many  things  became  clear  to  her:  for  the 
grim  finger  of  reality  had  torn  the  veil  from  her 
eyes  and  let  her  see  herself  but  little  changed,  at 
the  depths,  by  contact  with  John  Hale's  world,  as 
she  now  saw  him  but  little  changed,  at  the  depths, 
by  contact  with  hers.  Slowly  she  came  to  see,  too, 
that  it  was  his  presence  in  the  Court  Room  that 
made  her  tell  the  truth,  reckless  of  the  conse- 
quences, and  she  came  to  realize  that  she  was  not 
leaving  the  mountains  because  she  would  go  to  no 
place  where  she  could  not  know  of  any  danger 
that,  in  the  present  crisis,  might  threaten  John 
Hale. 

And  Hale  saw  only  that  in  the  Court  Room  she 
had  drawn  her  skirts  aside,  that  she  had  looked  at 
him  once  and  then  had  brushed  past  his  helping 
hand.  It  put  him  in  torment  to  think  of  what  her 
life  must  be  now,  and  of  how  she  must  be  suffering. 
He  knew  that  she  would  not  leave  her  father  in 
the  crisis  that  was  at  hand,  and  after  it  was  all  over 
— what  then?  His  hands  would  still  be  tied  and 
he  would  be  even  more  helpless  than  he  had  ever 
dreamed  possible.  To  be  sure,  an  old  land  deal 
had  come  to  life,  just  after  the  discovery  of  the 

325 


THE  TRAIL  OF  THE  LONESOME  PINE 

worthlessness  of  the  mine  in  Lonesome  Cove,  and 
was  holding  out  another  hope.  But  if  that,  too, 
should  fail — or  if  it  should  succeed — what  then  ? 
Old  Judd  had  sent  back,  with  a  curt  refusal,  the 
last  "allowance"  he  forwarded  to  June  and  he 
knew  the  old  man  was  himself  in  straits.  So  June 
must  stay  in  the  mountains,  and  what  would  be- 
come of  her  ?  She  had  gone  back  to  her  mountain 
garb — would  she  lapse  into  her  old  life  and  ever 
again  be  content  ?  Yes,  she  would  lapse,  but  never 
enough  to  keep  her  from  being  unhappy  all  her 
life,  and  at  that  thought  he  groaned.  Thus  far  he 
was  responsible  and  the  paramount  duty  with 
him  had  been  that  she  should  have  the  means  to 
follow  the  career  she  had  planned  for  herself  out- 
side of  those  hills.  And  now  if  he  had  the  means, 
he  was  helpless.  There  was  nothing  for  him  to 
do  now  but  to  see  that  the  law  had  its  way  with 
Rufe  Tolliver,  and  meanwhile  he  let  the  reawak- 
ened land  deal  go  hang  and  set  himself  the  task 
of  rinding  out  who  it  was  that  had  ambushed  old 
Dave  Tolliver.  So  even  when  he  was  thinking  of 
June  his  brain  was  busy  on  that  mystery,  and  one 
night,  as  he  sat  brooding,  a  suspicion  flashed  that 
made  him  grip  his  chair  with  both  hands  and  rise 
to  pace  the  porch.  Old  Dave  had  been  shot  at 
dawn,  and  the  night  before  the  Red  Fox  had  been 
absent  from  the  guard  and  had  not  turned  up 
until  nearly  noon  next  day.  He  had  told  Hale 
that  he  was  going  home.  Two  days  later,  Hale 

326 


THE  TRAIL  OF  THE  LONESOME  PINE 

heard  by  accident  that  the  old  man  had  been  seen 
near  the  place  of  the  ambush  about  sunset  of  the 
day  before  the  tragedy,  which  was  on  his  way 
home,  and  he  now  learned  straightway  for  himself 
that  the  Red  Fox  had  not  been  home  for  a  month 
— which  was  only  one  of  his  ways  of  mistreating 
the  patient  little  old  woman  in  black. 

A  little  later,  the  Red  Fox  gave  it  out  that  he 
was  trying  to  ferret  out  the  murderer  himself,  and 
several  times  he  was  seen  near  the  place  of  ambush, 
looking,  as  he  said,  for  evidence.  But  this  did  not 
halt  Male's  suspicions,  for  he  recalled  that  the 
night  he  had  spent  with  the  Red  Fox,  long  ago, 
the  old  man  had  burst  out  against  old  Dave  and 
had  quickly  covered  up  his  indiscretion  with  a 
pious  characterization  of  himself  as  a  man  that 
kept  peace  with  both  factions.  And  then  why  had 
he  been  so  suspicious  and  fearful  when  Hale  told 
him  that  night  that  he  had  seen  him  talking  with 
a  Falin  in  town  the  Court  day  before,  and  had  he 
disclosed  the  whereabouts  of  Rufe  Tolliver  and 
guided  the  guard  to  his  hiding-place  simply  for 
the  reward  ?  He  had  not  yet  come  to  claim  it, 
and  his  indifference  to  money  was  notorious 
through  the  hills.  Apparently  there  was  some 
general  enmity  in  the  old  man  toward  the  whole 
Tolliver  clan,  and  maybe  he  had  used  the  reward 
to  fool  Hale  as  to  his  real  motive.  And  then  Hale 
quietly  learned  that  long  ago  the  Tollivers  bitterly 
opposed  the  Red  Fox's  marriage  to  a  Tolliver — 

327 


THE  TRAIL  OF  THE  LONESOME  PINE 

that  Rufe,  when  a  boy,  was  always  teasing  the  Red 
Fox  and  had  once  made  him  dance  in  his  mocca- 
sins to  the  tune  of  bullets  spitting  about  his  feet, 
and  that  the  Red  Fox  had  been  heard  to  say  that 
old  Dave  had  cheated  his  wife  out  of  her  just  in- 
heritance of  wild  land;  but  all  that  was  long,  long 
ago,  and  apparently  had  been  mutually  forgiven 
and  forgotten.  But  it  was  enough  for  Hale,  and 
one  night  he  mounted  his  horse,  and  at  dawn  he 
was  at  the  place  of  ambush  with  his  horse  hidden 
in  the  bushes.  The  rocks  for  the  ambush  were 
waist  high,  and  the  twigs  that  had  been  thrust  in 
the  crevices  between  them  were  withered.  And 
there,  on  the  hypothesis  that  the  Red  Fox  was  the 
assassin,  Hale  tried  to  put  himself,  after  the  deed, 
into  the  Red  Fox's  shoes.  The  old  man  had 
turned  up  on  guard  before  noon — then  he  must 
have  gone  somewhere  first  or  have  killed  consid- 
erable time  in  the  woods.  He  would  not  have 
crossed  the  road,  for  there  were  two  houses  on  the 
other  side;  there  would  have  been  no  object  in 
going  on  over  the  mountain  unless  he  meant  to 
escape,  and  if  he  had  gone  over  there  for  another 
reason  he  would  hardly  have  had  time  to  get  to 
the  Court  House  before  noon:  nor  would  he  have 
gone  back  along  the  road  on  that  side,  for  on  that 
side,  too,  was  a  cabin  not  far  away.  So  Hale 
turned  and  walked  straight  away  from  the  road 
where  the  walking  was  easiest — down  a  ravine, 
and  pushing  this  way  and  that  through  the  bushes 

328 


THE  TRAIL  OF  THE  LONESOME  PINE 

where  the  way  looked  easiest.  Half  a  mile  down 
the  ravine  he  came  to  a  little  brook,  and  there  in 
the  black  earth  was  the  faint  print  of  a  man's  left 
foot  and  in  the  hard  crust  across  was  the  deeper 
print  of  his  right,  where  his  weight  in  leaping  had 
come  down  hard.  But  the  prints  were  made  by 
a  shoe  and  not  by  a  moccasin,  and  then  Hale  re- 
called exultantly  that  the  Red  Fox  did  not  have 
his  moccasins  on  the  morning  he  turned  up  on 
guard.  All  the  while  he  kept  a  sharp  lookout, 
right  and  left,  on  the  ground — the  Red  Fox  must 
have  thrown  his  cartridge  shell  somewhere,  and 
for  that  Hale  was  looking.  Across  the  brook  he 
could  see  the  tracks  no  farther,  for  he  was  too  little 
of  a  woodsman  to  follow  so  old  a  trail,  but  as  he 
stood  behind  a  clump  of  rhododendron,  wondering 
what  he  could  do,  he  heard  the  crack  of  a  dead 
stick  down  the  stream,  and  noiselessly  he  moved 
farther  into  the  bushes.  His  heart  thumped  in  the 
silence — the  long  silence  that  followed — for  it 
might  be  a  hostile  Tolliver  that  was  coming,  so 
he  pulled  his  pistol  from  his  holster,  made  ready, 
and  then,  noiseless  as  a  shadow,  the  Red  Fox 
slipped  past  him  along  the  path,  in  his  moccasins 
now,  and  with  his  big  Winchester  in  his  left  hand. 
The  Red  Fox,  too,  was  looking  for  that  cartridge 
shell,  for  only  the  night  before  had  he  heard  for 
the  first  time  of  the  whispered  suspicions  against 
him.  He  was  making  for  the  blind  and  Hale  trem- 
bled at  his  luck.  There  was  no  path  on  the  other 

329 


THE  TRAIL  OF  THE  LONESOME  PINE 

side  of  the  stream,  and  Hale  could  barely  hear  him 
moving  through  the  bushes.  So  he  pulled  ofF  his 
boots  and,  carrying  them  in  one  hand,  slipped 
after  him,  watching  for  dead  twigs,  stooping  under 
the  branches,  or  sliding  sidewise  through  them 
when  he  had  to  brush  between  their  extremities, 
and  pausing  every  now  and  then  to  listen  for  an 
occasional  faint  sound  from  the  Red  Fox  ahead. 
Up  the  ravine  the  old  man  went  to  a  little  ledge  of 
rocks,  beyond  which  was  the  blind,  and  when 
Hale  saw  his  stooped  figure  slip  over  that  and  dis- 
appear, he  ran  noiselessly  toward  it,  crept  noise- 
lessly to  the  top  and  peeped  carefully  over  to  see 
the  Red  Fox  with  his  back  to  him  and  peering  into 
a  clump  of  bushes — hardly  ten  yards  away.  While 
Hale  looked,  the  old  man  thrust  his  hand  into  the 
bushes  and  drew  out  something  that  twinkled  in 
the  sun.  At  the  moment  Hale's  horse  nickered 
from  the  bushes,  and  the  Red  Fox  slipped  his 
hand  into  his  pocket,  crouched  listening  a  mo- 
ment, and  then,  step  by  step,  backed  toward  the 
ledge.  Hale  rose: 

"I  want  you,  Red!" 

The  old  man  wheeled,  the  wolPs  snarl  came, 
but  the  big  rifle  was  too  slow — Hale's  pistol  had 
flashed  in  his  face. 

"Drop  your  gun!"  Paralyzed,  but  the  picture 
of  white  fury,  the  old  man  hesitated. 

"Drop — your — gun!"  Slowly  the  big  rifle  was 
loosed  and  fell  to  the  ground. 

330 


THE  TRAIL  OF  THE  LONESOME  PINE 

"Back  away — turn  around  and  hands  up!" 
With  his  foot  on  the  Winchester,  Hale  felt  in 

the  old  man's  pockets  and  fished  out  an  empty 

cartridge  shell.     Then  he  picked  up  the  rifle  and 

threw  the  slide. 

"It  fits  all  right.    March — toward  that  horse!" 
Without  a  word  the  old  man  slouched  ahead  to 

where  the  big  black  horse  was  restlessly  waiting 

in  the  bushes. 

"Climb  up,"  said  Hale.     "We  won't  'ride  and 

tie'  back  to  town — but  I'll  take  turns  with  you  on 

the  horse." 


The  Red  Fox  was  making  ready  to  leave  the 
mountains,  for  he  had  been  falsely  informed  that 
Rufe  was  to  be  brought  back  to  the  county  seat 
next  day,  and  he  was  searching  again  for  the  sole 
bit  of  evidence  that  was  out  against  him.  And 
when  Rufe  was  spirited  back  to  jail  and  was  on 
his  way  to  his  cell,  an  old  freckled  hand  was  thrust 
between  the  bars  of  an  iron  door  to  greet  him  and 
a  voice  called  him  by  name.  Rufe  stopped  in 
amazement;  then  he  burst  out  laughing;  he  struck 
then  at  the  pallid  face  through  the  bars  with 
his  manacles  and  cursed  the  old  man  bitterly; 
then  he  laughed  again  horribly.  The  two  slept  in 
adjoining  cells  of  the  same  cage  that  night — the 
one  waiting  for  the  scaffold  and  the  other  waiting 
for  the  trial  that  was  to  send  him  there.  And 
away  over  the  blue  mountains  a  little  old  woman 

331 


THE  TRAIL  OF  THE  LONESOME  PINE 

in  black  sat  on  the  porch  of  her  cabin  as  she  had 
sat  patiently  many  and  many  a  long  day.  It  was 
time,  she  thought,  that  the  Red  Fox  was  coming 
home. 


332 


XXVIII 

A  ND  so  while  Bad  Rufe  Tolliver  was  waiting 
•f-%  for  death,  the  trial  of  the  Red  Fox  went  on, 
and  when  he  was  not  swinging  in  a  hammock, 
reading  his  Bible,  telling  his  visions  to  his  guards 
and  singing  hymns,  he  was  in  the  Court  House 
giving  shrewd  answers  to  questions,  or  none  at  all, 
with  the  benevolent  half  of  his  mask  turned  to  the 
jury  and  the  wolfish  snarl  of  the  other  half  show- 
ing only  now  and  then  to  some  hostile  witness  for 
whom  his  hate  was  stronger  than  his  fear  for  his 
own  life.  And  in  jail  Bad  Rufe  worried  his  enemy 
with  the  malicious  humour  of  Satan.  Now  he 
would  say: 

"Oh,  there  ain't  nothin'  betwixt  old  Red  and 
me,  nothin'  at  all — 'cept  this  iron  wall,"  and  he 
would  drum  a  vicious  tattoo  on  the  thin  wall  with 
the  heel  of  his  boot.  Or  when  he  heard  the  creak 
of  the  Red  Fox's  hammock  as  he  droned  his  Bible 
aloud,  he  would  say  to  his  guard  outside: 

"Course  I  don't  read  the  Bible  an'  preach  the 
word,  nor  talk  with  sperits,  but  thar's  worse  men 
than  me  in  the  world — old  Red  in  thar*  for  in- 
stance"; and  then  he  would  cackle  like  a  fiend 
and  the  Red  Fox  would  writhe  in  torment  and 

333 


THE  TRAIL  OF  THE  LONESOME  PINE 

beg  to  be  sent  to  another  cell.  And  always  he 
would  daily  ask  the  Red  Fox  about  his  trial  and 
ask  him  questions  in  the  night,  and  his  devilish 
instinct  told  him  the  day  that  the  Red  Fox,  too, 
was  sentenced  to  death — he  saw  it  in  the  gray  pal- 
lour  of  the  old  man's  face,  and  he  cackled  his  glee 
like  a  demon.  For  the  evidence  against  the  Red 
Fox  was  too  strong.  Where  June  sat  as  chief 
witness  against  Rufe  Tolliver — John  Hale  sat  as 
chief  witness  against  the  Red  Fox.  He  could  not 
swear  it  was  a  cartridge  shell  that  he  saw  the  old 
man  pick  up,  but  it  was  something  that  glistened 
in  the  sun,  and  a  moment  later  he  had  found  the 
shell  in  the  old  man's  pocket — and  if  it  had  been 
fired  innocently,  why  was  it  there  and  why  was  the 
old  man  searching  for  it  ?  He  was  looking,  he 
said,  for  evidence  of  the  murderer  himself.  That 
claim  made,  the  Red  Fox's  lawyer  picked  up  the 
big  rifle  and  the  shell. 

"You  say,  Mr.  Hale,  the  prisoner  told  you  the 
night  you  spent  at  his  home  that  this  rifle  was 
rim-fire?" 

"  He  did."    The  lawyer  held  up  the  shell. 

"You  see  this  was  exploded  in  such  a  rifle." 
That  was  plain,  and  the  lawyer  shoved  the  shell 
into  the  rifle,  pulled  the  trigger,  took  it  out,  and 
held  it  up  again.  The  plunger  had  struck  below 
the  rim  and  near  the  centre,  but  not  quite  on  the 
centre,  and  Hale  asked  for  the  rifle  and  examined 
it  closely. 

334 


THE  TRAIL  OF  THE  LONESOME  PINE 

"It's  been  tampered  with,"  he  said  quietly,  and 
he  handed  it  to  the  prosecuting  attorney.  The 
fact  was  plain;  it  was  a  bungling  job  and  better 
proved  the  Red  Fox's  guilt.  Moreover,  there  were 
only  two  such  big  rifles  in  all  the  hills,  and  it  was 
proven  that  the  man  who  owned  the  other  was  at 
the  time  of  the  murder  far  away.  The  days  of 
brain-storms  had  not  come  then.  There  were  no 
eminent  Alienists  to  prove  insanity  for  the  pris- 
oner. Apparently,  he  had  no  friends — none  save 
the  little  old  woman  in  black  who  sat  by  his  side, 
hour  by  hour  and  day  by  day. 

And  the  Red  Fox  was  doomed. 

In  the  hush  of  the  Court  Room  the  Judge  sol- 
emnly put  to  the  gray  face  before  him  the  usual 
question: 

"Have  you  anything  to  say  whereby  sentence 
of  death  should  not  be  pronounced  on  you  ?" 

The  Red  Fox  rose: 

"No,"  he  said  in  a  shaking  voice;  "but  I  have 
a  friend  here  who  I  would  like  to  speak  for  me." 
The  Judge  bent  his  head  a  moment  over  his 
kench  and  lifted  it: 

"It  is  unusual,"  he  said;  "but  under  the  cir- 
cumstances I  will  grant  your  request.  Who  is 
your  friend  ?"  And  the  Red  Fox  made  the  souls 
of  his  listeners  leap. 

"  Jesus  Christ,"  he  said. 

The  Judge  reverently  bowed  his  head  and  the 
hush  of  the  Court  Room  grew  deeper  when  the 

335 


THE  TRAIL  OF  THE  LONESOME  PINE 

old  man  fished  his  Bible  from  his  pocket  and 
calmly  read  such  passages  as  might  be  interpreted 
as  sure  damnation  for  his  enemies  and  sure  glory 
for  himself — read  them  until  the  Judge  lifted  his 
hand  for  a  halt. 

And  so  another  sensation  spread  through  the 
hills  and  a  superstitious  awe  of  this  strange  new 
power  that  had  come  into  the  hills  went  with  it 
hand  in  hand.  Only  while  the  doubting  ones  knew 
that  nothing  could  save  the  Red  Fox  they  would 
wait  to  see  if  that  power  could  really  avail  against 
the  Tolliver  clan.  The  day  set  for  Rufe's  execu- 
tion was  the  following  Monday,  and  for  the  Red 
Fox  the  Friday  following — for  it  was  well  to  have 
the  whole  wretched  business  over  while  the  guard 
was  there.  Old  Judd  Tolliver,  so  Hale  learned, 
had  come  himself  to  offer  the  little  old  woman  in 
black  the  refuge  of  his  roof  as  long  as  she  lived, 
and  had  tried  to  get  her  to  go  back  with  him  to 
Lonesome  Cove;  but  it  pleased  the  Red  Fox  that 
he  should  stand  on  the  scaffold  in  a  suit  of  white — 
cap  and  all — as  emblems  of  the  purple  and  fine 
linen  he  was  to  put  on  above,  and  the  little  old 
woman  stayed  where  she  was,  silently  and  without 
question,  cutting  the  garments,  as  Hale  pityingly 
learned,  from  a  white  table-cloth  and  measuring 
them  piece  by  piece  with  the  clothes  the  old  man 
wore  in  jail.  It  pleased  him,  too,  that  his  body 
should  be  kept  unburied  three  days — saying  that 
he  would  then  arise  and  go  about  preaching,  and 

336 


THE  TRAIL  OF  THE  LONESOME  PINE 

that  duty,  too,  she  would  as  silently  and  with  as 
little  question  perform.  Moreover,  he  would 
preach  his  own  funeral  sermon  on  the  Sunday 
before  Rufe's  day,  and  a  curious  crowd  gathered 
to  hear  him.  The  Red  Fox  was  led  from  jail. 
He  stood  on  the  porch  of  the  jailer's  house  with 
a  little  table  in  front  of  him.  On  it  lay  a  Bible,  on 
the  other  side  of  the  table  sat  a  little  pale-faced 
old  woman  in  black  with  a  black  sun-bonnet 
drawn  close  to  her  face.  By  the  side  of  the  Bible 
lay  a  few  pieces  of  bread.  It  was  the  Red  Fox's 
last  communion — a  communion  which  he  admin- 
istered to  himself  and  in  which  there  was  no  other 
soul  on  earth  to  join  save  that  little  old  woman  in 
black.  And  when  the  old  fellow  lifted  the  bread 
and  asked  the  crowd  to  come  forward  to  partake 
with  him  in  the  last  sacrament,  not  a  soul  moved. 
Only  the  old  woman  who  had  been  ill-treated  by 
the  Red  Fox  for  so  many  years — only  she,  of  all 
the  crowd,  gave  any  answer,  and  she  for  one  in- 
stant turned  her  face  toward  him.  With  a  churlish 
gesture  the  old  man  pushed  the  bread  over  toward 
her  and  with  hesitating,  trembling  fingers  she 
reached  for  it. 

Bob  Berkley  was  on  the  death-watch  that  night, 
and  as  he  passed  Rufe's  cell  a  wiry  hand  shot 
through  the  grating  of  his  door,  and  as  the  boy 
sprang  away  the  condemned  man's  fingers  tipped 
the  butt  of  the  big  pistol  that  dangled  on  the  lad's 
hip. 

337 


THE  TRAIL  OF  THE  LONESOME  PINE 

"Not  this  time,"  said  Bob  with  a  cool  little 
laugh,  and  Rufe  laughed,  too. 

"I  was  only  foolin',"  he  said,  "I  ain't  goin'  to 
hang.  You  hear  that,  Red  ?  I  ain't  goin'  to  hang 
— but  you  are,  Red — sure.  Nobody'd  risk  his 
little  finger  for  your  old  carcass,  'cept  maybe  that 
little  old  woman  o'  yours  who  you've  treated  like 
a  hound — but  my  folks  ain't  goin'  to  see  me  hang." 

Rufe  spoke  with  some  reason.  That  night  the 
Tollivers  climbed  the  mountain,  and  before  day- 
break were  waiting  in  the  woods  a  mile  on  the 
north  side  of  the  town.  And  the  Falins  climbed, 
too,  farther  along  the  mountains,  and  at  the  same 
hour  were  waiting  in  the  woods  a  mile  to  the 
south. 

Back  in  Lonesome  Cove  June  Tolliver  sat 
alone — her  soul  shaken  and  terror-stricken  to  the 
depths — and  the  misery  that  matched  hers  was  in 
the  heart  of  Hale  as  he  paced  to  and  fro  at  the 
county  seat,  on  guard  and  forging  out  his  plans  for 
that  day  under  the  morning  stars. 


338 


XXIX 

T^\AY  broke  on  the  old  Court  House  with  its 
**J  black  port-holes,  on  the  graystone  jail,  and 
on  a  tall  topless  wooden  box  to  one  side,  from 
which  projected  a  cross-beam  of  green  oak.  From 
the  centre  of  this  beam  dangled  a  rope  that  swung 
gently  to  and  fro  when  the  wind  moved.  And  with 
the  day  a  flock  of  little  birds  lighted  on  the  bars 
of  the  condemned  man's  cell  window,  chirping 
through  them,  and  when  the  jailer  brought  break- 
fast he  found  Bad  Rufe  cowering  in  the  corner  of 
his  cell  and  wet  with  the  sweat  of  fear. 

"Them  damn  birds  ag'in,"  he  growled  sullenly. 

"Don't  lose  yo'  nerve,  Rufe,"  said  the  jailer, 
and  the  old  laugh  of  defiance  came,  but  from  lips 
that  were  dry. 

"Not  much,"  he  answered  grimly,  but  the  jailer 
noticed  that  while  he  ate,  his  eyes  kept  turning 
again  and  again  to  the  bars;  and  the  turnkey  went 
away  shaking  his  head.  Rufe  had  told  the  jailer, 
his  one  friend  through  whom  he  had  kept  in  con- 
stant communication  with  the  Tollivers,  how  on 
the  night  after  the  shooting  of  Mockaby,  when  he 
lay  down  to  sleep  high  on  the  mountain  side  and 
under  some  rhododendron  bushes,  a  flock  of  little 

339 


THE  TRAIL  OF  THE  LONESOME  PINE 

birds  flew  in  on  him  like  a  gust  of  rain  and  perched 
over  and  around  him,  twittering  at  him  until  he 
had  to  get  up  and  pace  the  woods,  and  how, 
throughout  the  next  day,  when  he  sat  in  the  sun 
planning  his  escape,  those  birds  would  sweep 
chattering  over  his  head  and  sweep  chattering 
back  again,  and  in  that  mood  of  despair  he  had 
said  once,  and  only  once:  "Somehow  I  knowed 
this  time  my  name  was  Dennis" — a  phrase  of  evil 
prophecy  he  had  picked  up  outside  the  hills.  And 
now  those  same  birds  of  evil  omen  had  come 
again,  he  believed,  right  on  the  heels  of  the  last 
sworn  oath  old  Judd  had  sent  him  that  he  would 
never  hang. 

With  the  day,  through  mountain  and  valley, 
came  in  converging  lines  mountain  humanity — 
men  and  women,  boys  and  girls,  children  and 
babes  in  arms;  all  in  their  Sunday  best — the  men 
in  jeans,  slouched  hats,  and  high  boots,  the  women 
in  gay  ribbons  and  brilliant  home-spun;  in  wag- 
ons, on  foot  and  on  horses  and  mules,  carrying  man 
and  man,  man  and  boy,  lover  and  sweetheart,  or 
husband  and  wife  and  child — all  moving  through 
the  crisp  autumn  air,  past  woods  of  russet  and 
crimson  and  along  brown  dirt  roads,  to  the  strag- 
gling little  mountain  town.  A  stranger  would 
have  thought  that  a  county  fair,  a  camp-meeting, 
or  a  circus  was  their  goal,  but  they  were  on  their 
way  to  look  upon  the  Court  House  with  its  black 
port-holes^  the  graystone  jail,  the  tall  wooden  box, 

340 


THE  TRAIL  OF  THE  LONESOME  PINE 

the  projecting  beam,  and  that  dangling  rope  which, 
when  the  wind  moved,  swayed  gently  to  and  fro. 
And  Hale  had  forged  his  plan.  He  knew  that 
there  would  be  no  attempt  at  rescue  until  Rufe 
was  led  to  the  scaffold,  and  he  knew  that  neither 
Falins  nor  Tollivers  would  come  in  a  band,  so  the 
incoming  tide  found  on  the  outskirts  of  the  town 
and  along  every  road  boyish  policemen  who  halted 
and  disarmed  every  man  who  carried  a  weapon  in 
sight,  for  thus  John  Hale  would  have  against  the 
pistols  of  the  factions  his  own  Winchesters  and  re- 
peating shot-guns.  And  the  wondering  people  saw 
at  the  back  windows  of  the  Court  House  and  at 
the  threatening  port-holes  more  youngsters  man- 
ning Winchesters,  more  at  the  windows  of  the  jail- 
er's frame  house,  which  joined  and  fronted  the  jail, 
and  more  still — a  line  of  them — running  all  around 
the  jail;  and  the  old  men  wagged  their  heads  in 
amazement  and  wondered  if,  after  all,  a  Tolliver 
was  not  really  going  to  be  hanged. 

So  they  waited — the  neighbouring  hills  were 
black  with  people  waiting;  the  housetops  were 
black  with  men  and  boys  waiting;  the  trees  in  the 
streets  were  bending  under  the  weight  of  human 
bodies;  and  the  jail-yard  fence  was  three  feet  deep 
with  people  hanging  to  it  and  hanging  about  one 
another's  necks — all  waiting.  All  morning  they 
waited  silently  and  patiently,  and  now  the  fatal 
noon  was  hardly  an  hour  away  and  not  a  Falin  nor 
a  Tolliver  had  been  seen.  Every  Falin  had  been 


THE  TRAIL  OF  THE  LONESOME  PINE 

disarmed  of  his  Winchester  as  he  came  in,  and  as 
yet  no  Tolliver  had  entered  the  town,  for  wily  old 
Judd  had  learned  of  Rale's  tactics  and  had  stayed 
outside  the  town  for  his  own  keen  purpose.  As 
the  minutes  passed,  Hale  was  beginning  to  wonder 
whether,  after  all,  old  Judd  had  come  to  believe 
that  the  odds  against  him  were  too  great,  and  had 
told  the  truth  when  he  set  afoot  the  rumour  that 
the  law  should  have  its  way;  and  it  was  just  when 
his  load  of  anxiety  was  beginning  to  lighten  that 
there  was  a  little  commotion  at  the  edge  of  the 
Court  House  and  a  great  red-headed  figure  pushed 
through  the  crowd,  followed  by  another  of  like 
build,  and  as  the  people  rapidly  gave  way  and  fell 
back,  a  line  of  Falins  slipped  along  the  wall  and 
stood  under  the  port-holes — quiet,  watchful,  and 
determined.  Almost  at  the  same  time  the  crowd 
fell  back  the  other  way  up  the  street,  there  was  the 
hurried  tramping  of  feet  and  on  came  the  Tolli- 
vers,  headed  by  giant  Judd,  all  armed  with  Win- 
chesters— for  old  Judd  had  sent  his  guns  in  ahead 
— and  as  the  crowd  swept  like  water  into  any  chan- 
nel of  alley  or  doorway  that  was  open  to  it,  Hale 
saw  the  yard  emptied  of  everybody  but  the  line  of 
Falins  against  the  wall  and  the  Tollivers  in  a  body 
but  ten  yards  in  front  of  them.  The  people  on  the 
roofs  and  in  the  trees  had  not  moved  at  all,  for  they 
were  out  of  range.  For  a  moment  old  Judd's  eyes 
swept  the  windows  and  port-holes  of  the  Court 
House,  the  windows  of  the  jailer's  house,  the  line 

342 


THE  TRAIL  OF  THE  LONESOME  PINE 

of  guards  about  the  jail,  and  then  they  dropped  to 
the  line  of  Falins  and  glared  with  contemptuous 
hate  into  the  leaping  blue  eyes  of  old  Buck  Falin, 
and  for  that  moment  there  was  silence.  In  that 
silence  and  as  silently  as  the  silence  itself  issued 
swiftly  from  the  line  of  guards  twelve  youngsters 
with  Winchesters,  repeating  shot-guns,  and  in  a 
minute  six  were  facing  the  Falins  and  six  facing 
the  Tollivers,  each  with  his  shot-gun  at  his  hip. 
At  the  head  of  them  stood  Hale,  his  face  a  pale 
image,  as  hard  as  though  cut  from  stone,  his  head 
bare,  and  his  hand  and  his  hip  weaponless.  In  all 
that  crowd  there  was  not  a  man  or  a  woman  who 
had  not  seen  or  heard  of  him,  for  the  power  of  the 
guard  that  was  at  his  back  had  radiated  through 
that  wild  region  like  ripples  of  water  from  a 
dropped  stone  and,  unarmed  even,  he  had  a  per- 
sonal power  that  belonged  to  no  other  man  in  all 
those  hills,  though  armed  to  the  teeth.  His  voice 
rose  clear,  steady,  commanding: 

"The  law  has  come  here  and  it  has  come  to 
stay."  He  faced  the  beetling  eyebrows  and  angrily 
working  beard  of  old  Judd  now: 

"The  Falins  are  here  to  get  revenge  on  you 
Tollivers,  if  you  attack  us.  I  know  that.  But" — 
he  wheeled  on  the  Falins — "understand!  We 
don't  want  your  help!  If  the  Tollivers  try  to  take 
that  man  in  there,  and  one  of  you  Falins  draws  a 
pistol,  those  guns  there" — waving  his  hand  toward 
the  jail  windows — "will  be  turned  loose  on  you. 

343 


THE  TRAIL  OF  THE  LONESOME  PINE 

We'll  fight  you  both!"  The  last  words  shot  like 
bullets  through  his  gritted  teeth,  then  the  flash  of 
his  eyes  was  gone,  his  face  was  calm,  and  as  though 
the  whole  matter  had  been  settled  beyond  possible 
interruption,  he  finished  quietly: 

"The  condemned  man  wishes  to  make  a  con- 
fession and  to  say  good-by.  In  five  minutes  he  will 
be  at  that  window  to  say  what  he  pleases.  Ten 
minutes  later  he  will  be  hanged."  And  he  turned 
and  walked  calmly  into  the  jailer's  door.  Not  a 
Toliiver  nor  a  Falin  made  a  movement  or  a  sound. 
Young  Dave's  eyes  had  glared  savagely  when  he 
first  saw  Hale,  for  he  had  marked  Hale  for  his 
own  and  he  knew  that  the  fact  was  known  to 
Hale.  Had  the  battle  begun  then  and  there,  Hale's 
death  was  sure,  and  Dave  knew  that  Hale  must 
know  that  as  well  as  he:  and  yet  with  magnifi- 
cent audacity,  there  he  was — unarmed,  personally 
helpless,  and  invested  with  an  insulting  certainty 
that  not  a  shot  would  be  fired.  Not  a  Falin  or  a 
Toliiver  even  reached  for  a  weapon,  and  the  fact 
was  the  subtle  tribute  that  ignorance  pays  intelli- 
gence when  the  latter  is  forced  to  deadly  weapons 
as  a  last  resort;  for  ignorance  faced  now  belching 
shot-guns  and  was  commanded  by  rifles  on  every 
side.  Old  Judd  was  trapped  and  the  Falins  were 
stunned.  Old  Buck  Falin  turned  his  eyes  down 
the  line  of  his  men  with  one  warning  glance.  Old 
Judd  whispered  something  to  a  Toliiver  behind 
him  and  a  moment  later  the  man  slipped  from  the 

344 


THE  TRAIL  OF  THE  LONESOME  PINE 

band  and  disappeared.  Young  Dave  followed 
Hale's  figure  with  a  look  of  baffled  malignant  ha- 
tred and  Bub's  eyes  were  filled  with  angry  tears. 
Between  the  factions,  the  grim  young  men  stood 
with  their  guns  like  statues. 

At  once  a  big  man  with  a  red  face  appeared  at 
one  of  the  jailer's  windows  and  then  came  the 
sheriff,  who  began  to  take  out  the  sash.  Already 
the  frightened  crowd  had  gathered  closer  again 
and  now  a  hush  came  over  it,  followed  by  a  rustling 
and  a  murmur.  Something  was  going  to  happen. 
Faces  and  gun-muzzles  thickened  at  the  port- 
holes and  at  the  windows;  the  line  of  guards  turned 
their  faces  sidewise  and  upward;  the  crowd  on  the 
fence  scuffled  for  better  positions;  the  people  in 
the  trees  craned  their  necks  from  the  branches  or 
climbed  higher,  and  there  was  a  great  scraping  on 
all  the  roofs.  Even  the  black  crowd  out  on  the 
hills  seemed  to  catch  the  excitement  and  to  sway, 
while  spots  of  intense  blue  and  vivid  crimson  came 
out  here  and  there  from  the  blackness  when  the 
women  rose  from  their  seats  on  the  ground.  Then 
— sharply — there  was  silence.  The  sheriff  disap- 
peared, and  shut  in  by  the  sashless  window  as  by 
a  picture  frame  and  blinking  in  the  strong  light, 
stood  a  man  with  black  hair,  cropped  close,  face 
pale  and  worn,  and  hands  that  looked  white  and 
thin — stood  bad  Rufe  Tolliver. 

He  was  going  to  confess — that  was  the  rumour. 
His  lawyers  wanted  him  to  confess;  the  preacher 

345 


THE  TRAIL  OF  THE  LONESOME  PINE 

who  had  been  singing  hymns  with  him  all  morning 
wanted  him  to  confess;  the  man  himself  said  he 
wanted  to  confess;  and  now  he  was  going  to  con- 
fess. What  deadly  mysteries  he  might  clear  up  if 
he  would!  No  wonder  the  crowd  was  eager,  for 
there  was  no  soul  there  but  knew  his  record — and 
what  a  record!  His  best  friends  put  his  victims  no 
lower  than  thirteen,  and  there  looking  up  at  him 
were  three  women  whom  he  had  widowed  or  or- 
phaned, while  at  one  corner  of  the  jail-yard  stood 
a  girl  in  black — the  sweetheart  of  Mockaby,  for 
whose  death  Rufe  was  standing  where  he  stood 
now.  But  his  lips  did  not  open.  Instead  he  took 
hold  of  the  side  of  the  window  and  looked  behind 
him.  The  sheriff  brought  him  a  chair  and  he  sat 
down.  Apparently  he  was  weak  and  he  was  going 
to  wait  a  while.  Would  he  tell  how  he  had  killed 
one  Falin  in  the  presence  of  the  latter's  wife  at  a 
wild  bee  tree;  how  he  had  killed  a  sheriff  by  drop- 
ping to  the  ground  when  the  sheriff  fired,  in  this 
way  dodging  the  bullet  and  then  shooting  the 
officer  from  where  he  lay  supposedly  dead;  how 
he  had  thrown  another  Falin  out  of  the  Court 
House  window  and  broken  his  neck — the  Falin 
was  drunk,  Rufe  always  said,  and  fell  out;  why, 
when  he  was  constable,  he  had  killed  another — 
because,  Rufe  said,  he  resisted  arrest;  how  and 
where  he  had  killed  Red-necked  Johnson,  who 
was  found  out  in  the  woods  ?  Would  he  tell  all 
that  and  more  ?  If  he  meant  to  tell  there  was  no 

34-6 


THE  TRAIL  OF  THE  LONESOME  PINE 

sign.  His  lips  kept  closed  and  his  bright  black  eyes 
were  studying  the  situation;  the  little  squad  of 
youngsters,  back  to  back,  with  their  repeating 
shot-guns,  the  line  of  Falins  along  the  wall  toward 
whom  protruded  six  shining  barrels,  the  huddled 
crowd  of  Tollivers  toward  whom  protruded  six 
more — old  Judd  towering  in  front  with  young 
Dave  on  one  side,  tense  as  a  leopard  about  to 
spring,  and  on  the  other  Bub,  with  tears  streaming 
down  his  face.  In  a  flash  he  understood,  and  in 
that  flash  his  face  looked  as  though  he  had  been 
suddenly  struck  a  heavy  blow  by  some  one  from 
behind,  and  then  his  elbows  dropped  on  the  sill  of 
the  window,  his  chin  dropped  into  his  hands  and  a 
murmur  arose.  Maybe  he  was  too  weak  to  stand 
and  talk — perhaps  he  was  going  to  talk  from  his 
chair.  Yes,  he  was  leaning  forward  and  his  lips 
were  opening,  but  no  sound  came.  Slowly  his 
eyes  wandered  around  at  the  waiting  people — in 
the  trees,  on  the  roofs  and  the  fence — and  then  they 
dropped  to  old  Judd's  and  blazed  their  appeal  for 
a  sign.  With  one  heave  of  his  mighty  chest  old 
Judd  took  off  his  slouch  hat,  pressed  one  big  hand 
to  the  back  of  his  head  and,  despite  that  blazing 
appeal,  kept  it  there.  At  that  movement  Rufe 
threw  his  head  up  as  though  his  breath  had  sud- 
denly failed  him,  his  face  turned  sickening  white, 
and  slowly  again  his  chin  dropped  into  his  trem- 
bling hands,  and  still  unbelieving  he  stared  his 
appeal,  but  old  Judd  dropped  his  big  hand  and 

347 


THE  TRAIL  OF  THE  LONESOME  PINE 

turned  his  head  away.  The  condemned  man's 
mouth  twitched  once,  settled  into  defiant  calm, 
and  then  he  did  one  kindly  thing.  He  turned  in 
his  seat  and  motioned  Bob  Berkley,  who  was  just 
behind  him,  away  from  the  window,  and  the  boy, 
to  humour  him,  stepped  aside.  Then  he  rose  to 
his  feet  and  stretched  his  arms  wide.  Simultane- 
ously came  the  far-away  crack  of  a  rifle,  and  as  a 
jet  of  smoke  spurted  above  a  clump  of  bushes  on 
a  little  hill,  three  hundred  yards  away,  Bad  Rufe 
wheeled  half-way  round  and  fell  back  out  of  sight 
into  the  sheriff's  arms.  Every  Falin  made  a  ner- 
vous reach  for  his  pistol,  the  line  of  gun-muzzles 
covering  them  wavered  slightly,  but  the  Tollivers 
stood  still  and  unsurprised,  and  when  Hale  dashed 
from  the  door  again,  there  was  a  grim  smile  of 
triumph  on  old  Judd's  face.  He  had  kept  his 
promise  that  Rufe  should  never  hang. 

"Steady  there,"  said  Hale  quietly.  His  pistol 
was  on  his  hip  now  and  a  Winchester  was  in  his 
left  hand. 

"Stand  where  you  are — everybody!" 

There  was  the  sound  of  hurrying  feet  within  the 
jail.  There  was  the  clang  of  an  iron  door,  the  bang 
of  a  wooden  one,  and  in  five  minutes  from  within 
the  tall  wooden  box  came  the  sharp  click  of  a 
hatchet  and  then — dully: 

"  T-h-o-o-mp  ! "  The  dangling  rope  had  tight- 
ened with  a  snap  and  the  wind  swayed  it  no  more. 

At  his  cell  door  the  Red  Fox  stood  with  his 

348 


THE  TRAIL  OF  THE  LONESOME  PINE 

watch  in  his  hand  and  his  eyes  glued  to  the  second- 
hand. When  it  had  gone  three  times  around  its 
circuit,  he  snapped  the  lid  with  a  sigh  of  relief  and 
turned  to  his  hammock  and  his  Bible. 

"  He's  gone  now,"  said  the  Red  Fox. 

Outside  Hale  still  waited,  and  as  his  eyes  turned 
from  the  Tollivers  to  the  Falins,  seven  of  the  faces 
among  them  came  back  to  him  with  startling  dis- 
tinctness, and  his  mind  went  back  to  the  opening 
trouble  in  the  county-seat  over  the  Kentucky  line, 
years  before — when  eight  men  held  one  another  at 
the  points  of  their  pistols.  One  face  was  missing, 
and  that  face  belonged  to  Rufe  Tolliver.  Hale 
pulled  out  his  watch. 

"  Keep  those  men  there,"  he  said,  pointing  to 
the  Falins,  and  he  turned  to  the  bewildered 
Tollivers. 

"Come  on,  Judd,"  he  said  kindly— "all  of  you." 

Dazed  and  mystified,  they  followed  him  in  a 
body  around  the  corner  of  the  jail,  where  in  a 
coffin,  that  old  Judd  had  sent  as  a  blind  to  his  real 
purpose,  lay  the  remains  of  Bad  Rufe  Tolliver 
with  a  harmless  bullet  hole  through  one  shoulder. 
Near  by  was  a  wagon  and  hitched  to  it  were  two 
mules  that  Hale  himself  had  provided.  Hale 
pointed  to  it: 

"  I've  done  all  I  could,  Judd.  Take  him  away. 
Pll  keep  the  Falins  under  guard  until  you  reach  the 
Kentucky  line,  so  that  they  can't  waylay  you." 

If  old  Judd  heard,  he  gave  no  sign.     He  was 

349 


THE  TRAIL  OF  THE  LONESOME  PINE 

looking  down  at  the  face  of  his  foster-brother — his 
shoulder  drooped,  his  great  frame  shrunken,  and 
his  iron  face  beaten  and  helpless.  Again  Hale 
spoke: 

"  I'm  sorry  for  all  this.  I'm  even  sorry  that  your 
man  was  not  a  better  shot." 

The  old  man  straightened  then  and  with  a 
gesture  he  motioned  young  Dave  to  the  foot  of  the 
coffin  and  stooped  himself  at  the  head.  Past  the 
wagon  they  went,  the  crowd  giving  way  before 
them,  and  with  the  dead  Tolliver  on  their  shoul- 
ders, old  Judd  and  young  Dave  passed  with  their 
followers  out  of  sight. 


350 


XXX 

/TSHE  longest  of  her  life  was  that  day  to  June. 
The  anxiety  in  times  of  war  for  the  women 
who  wait  at  home  is  vague  because  they  are  mer- 
cifully ignorant  of  the  dangers  their  loved  ones 
run,  but  a  specific  issue  that  involves  death  to  those 
loved  ones  has  a  special  and  poignant  terror  of  its 
own.  June  knew  her  father's  plan,  the  precise 
time  the  fight  would  take  place,  and  the  especial 
danger  that  was  Hale's,  for  she  knew  that  young 
Dave  Tolliver  had  marked  him  with  the  first  shot 
fired.  Dry-eyed  and  white  and  dumb,  she  watched 
them  make  ready  for  the  start  that  morning  while 
it  was  yet  dark;  dully  she  heard  the  horses  snort- 
ing from  the  cold,  the  low  curt  orders  of  her  father, 
and  the  exciting  mutterings  of  Bub  and  young 
Dave;  dully  she  watched  the  saddles  thrown  on, 
the  pistols  buckled,  the  Winchesters  caught  up, 
and  dully  she  watched  them  file  out  the  gate  and 
ride  away,  single  file,  into  the  cold,  damp  mist  like 
ghostly  figures  in  a  dream.  Once  only  did  she 
open  her  lips  and  that  was  to  plead  with  her  father 
to  leave  Bub  at  home,  but  her  father  gave  her  no 
answer  and  Bub  snorted  his  indignation — he  was 
a  man  now,  and  his  now  was  the  privilege  of  a 

351 


THE  TRAIL  OF  THE  LONESOME  PINE 

man.  For  a  while  she  stood  listening  to  the  ring 
of  metal  against  stone  that  came  to  her  more  and 
more  faintly  out  of  the  mist,  and  she  wondered  if  it 
was  really  June  Tolliver  standing  there,  while 
father  and  brother  and  cousin  were  on  their  way 
to  fight  the  law — how  differently  she  saw  these 
things  now — for  a  man  who  deserved  death,  and 
to  fight  a  man  who  was  ready  to  die  for  his  duty 
to  that  law — the  law  that  guarded  them  and  her 
and  might  not  perhaps  guard  him:  the  man  who 
had  planted  for  her  the  dew-drenched  garden  that 
was  waiting  for  the  sun,  and  had  built  the  little 
room  behind  her  for  her  comfort  and  seclusion; 
who  had  sent  her  to  school,  had  never  been  any- 
thing but  kind  and  just  to  her  and  to  everybody — 
who  had  taught  her  life  and,  thank  God,  love. 
Was  she  really  the  June  Tolliver  who  had  gone 
out  into  the  world  and  had  held  her  place  there; 
who  had  conquered  birth  and  speech  and  customs 
and  environment  so  that  none  could  tell  what  they 
all  once  were;  who  had  become  the  lady,  the 
woman  of  the  world,  in  manner,  dress,  and  educa- 
tion: who  had  a  gift  of  music  and  a  voice  that 
might  enrich  her  life  beyond  any  dream  that  had 
ever  sprung  from  her  own  brain  or  any  that  she 
had  ever  caught  from  Hale's  ?  Was  she  June  Tol- 
liver who  had  been  and  done  all  that,  and  now  had 
come  back  and  was  slowly  sinking  back  into  the 
narrow  grave  from  which  Hale  had  lifted  her  ?  It 
was  all  too  strange  and  bitter,  but  if  she  wanted 

352 


THE  TRAIL  OF  THE  LONESOME  PINE 

proof  there  was  her  step-mother's  voice  now — the 
same  old,  querulous,  nerve-racking  voice  that  had 
embittered  all  her  childhood — calling  her  down 
into  the  old  mean  round  of  drudgery  that  had 
bound  forever  the  horizon  of  her  narrow  life  just 
as  now  it  was  shutting  down  like  a  sky  of  brass 
around  her  own.  And  when  the  voice  came,  in- 
stead of  bursting  into  tears  as  she  was  about  to  do, 
she  gave  a  hard  little  laugh  and  she  lifted  a  defiant 
face  to  the  rising  sun.  There  was  a  limit  to  the 
sacrifice  for  kindred,  brother,  father,  home,  and 
that  limit  was  the  eternal  sacrifice — the  eternal 
undoing  of  herself:  when  this  wretched  terrible 
business  was  over  she  would  set  her  feet  where  that 
sun  could  rise  on  her,  busy  with  the  work  that  she 
could  do  in  that  world  for  which  she  felt  she  was 
born.  Swiftly  she  did  the  morning  chores  and 
then  she  sat  on  the  porch  thinking  and  waiting. 
Spinning  wheel,  loom,  and  darning  needle  were  to 
lie  idle  that  day.  The  old  step-mother  had  gotten 
from  bed  and  was  dressing  herself — miraculously 
cured  of  a  sudden,  miraculously  active.  She  be- 
gan to  talk  of  what  she  needed  in  town,  and  June 
said  nothing.  She  went  out  to  the  stable  and  led 
out  the  old  sorrel-mare.  She  was  going  to  the 
hanging. 

"Don't  you  want  to  go  to  town,  June  ?" 

"No,"  said  June  fiercely. 

"Well,  you  needn't  git  mad  about  it — I  got  to 
go  some  day  this  week,  and  I  reckon  I  might  as 

353 


THE  TRAIL  OF  THE  LONESOME  PINE 

well  go  ter-day."  June  answered  nothing,  but  in 
silence  watched  her  get  ready  and  in  silence 
watched  her  ride  away.  She  was  glad  to  be  left 
alone.  The  sun  had  flooded  Lonesome  Cove  now 
with  a  light  as  rich  and  yellow  as  though  it  were 
late  afternoon,  and  she  could  yet  tell  every  tree  by 
the  different  colour  of  the  banner  that  each  yet 
defiantly  flung  into  the  face  of  death.  The  yard 
fence  was  festooned  with  dewy  cobwebs,  and  every 
weed  in  the  field  was  hung  with  them  as  with  flash- 
ing jewels  of  exquisitely  delicate  design:  Hale  had 
once  told  her  that  they  meant  rain.  Far  away  the 
mountains  were  overhung  with  purple  so  deep 
that  the  very  air  looked  like  mist,  and  a  peace  that 
seemed  motherlike  in  tenderness  brooded  over  the 
earth.  Peace!  Peace — with  a  man  on  his  way  to 
a  scaffold  only  a  few  miles  away,  and  two  bodies 
of  men,  one  led  by  her  father,  the  other  by  the 
man  she  loved,  ready  to  fly  at  each  other's  throats 
— the  one  to  get  the  condemned  man  alive,  the 
other  to  see  that  he  died.  She  got  up  with  a  groan. 
She  walked  into  the  garden.  The  grass  was  tall, 
tangled,  and  withering,  and  in  it  dead  leaves  lay 
everywhere,  stems  up,  stems  down,  in  reckless 
confusion.  The  scarlet  sage-pods  were  brown 
and  seeds  were  dropping  from  their  tiny  gaping 
mouths.  The  marigolds  were  frost-nipped  and 
one  lonely  black-winged  butterfly  was  vainly 
searching  them  one  by  one  for  the  lost  sweets  of 
summer.  The  gorgeous  crowns  of  the  sun-flowers 

354 


THE  TRAIL  OF  THE  LONESOME  PINE 

were  nothing  but  grotesque  black  mummy-heads 
set  on  lean,  dead  bodies,  and  the  clump  of  big 
castor-plants,  buffeted  by  the  wind,  leaned  this 
way  and  that  like  giants  in  a  drunken  orgy  trying 
to  keep  one  another  from  falling  down.  The  blight 
that  was  on  the  garden  was  the  blight  that  was  in 
her-  heart,  and  two  bits  of  cheer  only  she  found — 
one  yellow  nasturtium,  scarlet-flecked,  whose  fra- 
grance was  a  memory  of  the  spring  that  was  long 
gone,  and  one  little  cedar  tree  that  had  caught 
some  dead  leaves  in  its  green  arms  and  was  firmly 
holding  them  as  though  to  promise  that  another 
spring  would  surely  come.  With  the  flower  in  her 
hand,  she  started  up  the  ravine  to  her  dreaming 
place,  but  it  was  so  lonely  up  there  and  she  turned 
back.  She  went  into  her  room  and  tried  to  read. 
Mechanically,  she  half  opened  the  lid  of  the  piano 
and  shut  it,  horrified  by  her  own  act.  As  she 
passed  out  on  the  porch  again  she  noticed  that  it 
was  only  nine  o'clock.  She  turned  and  watched 
the  long  hand — how  long  a  minute  was!  Three 
hours  more !  She  shivered  and  went  inside  and  got 
her  bonnet — she  could  not  be  alone  when  the  hour 
came,  and  she  started  down  the  road  toward  Uncle 
Billy's  mill.  Hale!  Hale!  Hale! — the  name  began 
to  ring  in  her  ears  like  a  bell.  The  little  shacks  he 
had  built  up  the  creek  were  deserted  and  gone  to 
ruin,  and  she  began  to  wonder  in  the  light  of  what 
her  father  had  said  how  much  of  a  tragedy  that 
meant  to  him.  Here  was  the  spot  where  he  was 

355 


THE  TRAIL  OF  THE  LONESOME  PINE 

fishing  that  day,  when  she  had  slipped  down  be- 
hind him  and  he  had  turned  and  seen  her  for  the 
first  time.  She  could  recall  his  smile  and  the  very 
tone  of  his  kind  voice : 

"Howdye,  little  girl!"  And  the  cat  had  got  her 
tongue.  She  remembered  when  she  had  written 
her  name,  after  she  had  first  kissed  him  at  the  foot 
of  the  beech — "June  Hail,"  and  by  a  grotesque 
mental  leap  the  beating  of  his  name  in  her  brain 
now  made  her  think  of  the  beating  of  hailstones  on 
her  father's  roof  one  night  when  as  a  child  she  had 
lain  and  listened  to  them.  Then  she  noticed  that 
the  autumn  shadows  seemed  to  make  the  river 
darker  than  the  shadows  of  spring — or  was  it  al- 
ready the  stain  of  dead  leaves  ?  Hale  could  have 
told  her.  Those  leaves  were  floating  through  the 
shadows  and  when  the  wind  moved,  others  zig- 
zagged softly  down  to  join  them.  The  wind  was 
helping  them  on  the  water,  too,  and  along  came 
one  brown  leaf  that  was  shaped  like  a  tiny  trireme 
— its  stem  acting  like  a  rudder  and  keeping  it 
straight  before  the  breeze — so  that  it  swept  past 
the  rest  as  a  yacht  that  she  was  once  on  had  swept 
past  a  fleet  of  fishing  sloops.  She  was  not  unlike 
that  swift  little  ship  and  thirty  yards  ahead  were 
rocks  and  shallows  where  it  and  the  whole  fleet 
would  turn  topsy-turvy — would  her  own  triumph 
be  as  short  and  the  same  fate  be  hers  ?  There  was 
no  question  as  to  that,  unless  she  took  the  wheel 
of  her  fate  in  her  own  hands  and  with  them  steered 

356 


THE  TRAIL  OF  THE  LONESOME  PINE 

the  ship.  Thinking  hard,  she  walked  on  slowly, 
with  her  hands  behind  her  and  her  eyes  bent  on 
the  road.  What  should  she  do  ?  She  had  no 
money,  her  father  had  none  to  spare,  and  she 
could  accept  no  more  from  Hale.  Once  she 
stopped  and  stared  with  unseeing  eyes  at  the  blue 
sky,  and  once  under  the  heavy  helplessness  of  it 
all  she  dropped  on  the  side  of  the  road  and  sat 
with  her  head  buried  in  her  arms — sat  so  long  that 
she  rose  with  a  start  and,  with  an  apprehensive  look 
at  the  mounting  sun,  hurried  on.  She  would  go  to 
the  Gap  and  teach;  and  then  she  knew  that  if  she 
went  there  it  would  be  on  Hale's  account.  Very 
well,  she  would  not  blind  herself  to  that  fact;  she 
would  go  and  perhaps  all  would  be  made  up  be- 
tween them,  and  then  she  knew  that  if  that  but 
happened,  nothing  else  could  matter.  .  .  . 

When  she  reached  the  miller's  cabin,  she  went 
to  the  porch  without  noticing  that  the  door  was 
closed.  Nobody  was  at  home  and  she  turned  list- 
lessly. When  she  reached  the  gate,  she  heard  the 
clock  beginning  to  strike,  and  with  one  hand  on 
her  breast  she  breathlessly  listened,  counting — 
"eight,  nine,  ten,  eleven" — and  her  heart  seemed 
to  stop  in  the  fraction  of  time  that  she  waited  for 
it  to  strike  once  more.  But  it  was  only  eleven,  and 
she  went  on  down  the  road  slowly,  still  thinking 
hard.  The  old  miller  was  leaning  back  in  a  chair 
against  the  log  side  of  the  mill,  with  his  dusty 
slouched  hat  down  over  his  eyes.  He  did  not  hear 

357 


THE  TRAIL  OF  THE  LONESOME  PINE 

her  coming  and  she  thought  he  must  be  asleep, 
but  he  looked  up  with  a  start  when  she  spoke  and 
she  knew  of  what  he,  too,  had  been  thinking. 
Keenly  his  old  eyes  searched  her  white  face  and 
without  a  word  he  got  up  and  reached  for  another 
chair  within  the  mill. 

"You  set  right  down  now,  baby,"  he  said,  and 
he  made  a  pretence  of  having  something  to  do  in- 
side the  mill,  while  June  watched  the  creaking  old 
wheel  dropping  the  sun-shot  sparkling  water  into 
the  swift  sluice,  but  hardly  seeing  it  at  all.  By  and 
by  Uncle  Billy  came  outside  and  sat  down  and 
neither  spoke  a  word.  Once  June  saw  him  covertly 
looking  at  his  watch  and  she  put  both  hands  to 
her  throat — stifled. 

"What  time  is  it,  Uncle  Billy?"  She  tried  to 
ask  the  question  calmly,  but  she  had  to  try  twice 
before  she  could  speak  at  all  and  when  she  did  get 
the  question  out,  her  voice  was  only  a  broken 
whisper. 

"Five  minutes  to  twelve,  baby,"  said  the  old 
man,  and  his  voice  had  a  gulp  in  it  that  broke  June 
down.  She  sprang  to  her  feet  wringing  her  hands: 

"  I  can't  stand  it,  Uncle  Billy,"  she  cried  madly, 
and  with  a  sob  that  almost  broke  the  old  man's 
heart.  "I  tell  you  I  can't  stand  it." 

And  yet  for  three  hours  more  she  had  to  stand 
it,  while  the  cavalcade  of  Tollivers,  with  Rufe's 
body,  made  its  slow  way  to  the  Kentucky  line 

358 


THE  TRAIL  OF  THE  LONESOME  PINE 

where  Judd  and  Dave  and  Bub  left  them  to  go 
home  for  the  night  and  be  on  hand  for  the  funeral 
next  day.  But  Uncle  Billy  led  her  back  to  his 
cabin,  and  on  the  porch  the  two,  with  old  Hon, 
waited  while  the  three  hours  dragged  along.  It 
was  June  who  was  first  to  hear  the  galloping  of 
horses'  hoofs  up  the  road  and  she  ran  to  the  gate, 
followed  by  Uncle  Billy  and  old  Hon  to  see  young 
Dave  Tolliver  coming  in  a  run.  At  the  gate  he 
threw  himself  from  his  horse: 

"Git  up  thar,  June,  and  go  home,"  he  panted 
sharply.  June  flashed  out  the  gate. 

"  Have  you  done  it  ? "  she  asked  with  deadly  quiet. 

"Hurry  up  an'  go  home,  I  tell  ye!  Uncle  Judd 
wants  ye!" 

She  came  quite  close  to  him  now. 

"You  said  you'd  do  it — I  know  what  you've 
done — you — "  she  looked  as  if  she  would  fly  at 
his  throat,  and  Dave,  amazed,  shrank  back  a  step. 

"Go  home,  I  tell  ye — Uncle  Judd's  shot.  Git 
on  the  hoss!" 

"No,  no,  no!  I  wouldn't  touch  anything  that 
was  yours" — she  put  her  hands  to  her  head  as 
though  she  were  crazed,  and  then  she  turned  and 
broke  into  a  swift  run  up  the  road. 

Panting,  June  reached  the  gate.  The  front  door 
was  closed  and  there  she  gave  a  tremulous  cry  for 
Bub.  The  door  opened  a  few  inches  and  through 
it  Bub  shouted  for  her  to  come  on.  The  back 
door,  too,  was  closed,  and  not  a  ray  of  daylight 

359 


THE  TRAIL  OF  THE  LONESOME  PINE 

entered  the  room  except  at  the  port-hole  where 
Bub,  with  a  Winchester,  had  been  standing  on 
guard.  By  the  light  of  the  fire  she  saw  her  father's 
giant  frame  stretched  out  on  the  bed  and  she  heard 
his  laboured  breathing.  Swiftly  she  went  to  the 
bed  and  dropped  on  her  knees  beside  it. 

"Dad!"  she  said.  The  old  man's  eyes  opened 
and  turned  heavily  toward  her. 

"All  right,  Juny.  They  shot  me  from  the  laurel 
and  they  might  nigh  got  Bub.  I  reckon  they've 
got  me  this  time." 

"No — no!"  He  saw  her  eyes  fixed  on  the 
matted  blood  on  his  chest. 

"Hit's  stopped.  I'm  afeared  hit's  bleedin'  in- 
side." His  voice  had  dropped  to  a  whisper  and 
his  eyes  closed  again.  There  was  another  cautious 
"Hello"  outside,  and  when  Bub  again  opened  the 
door  Dave  ran  swiftly  within.  He  paid  no  atten- 
tion to  June. 

"I  follered  June  back  an'  left  my  hoss  in  the 
bushes.  There  was  three  of  'em."  He  showed 
Bub  a  bullet  hole  through  one  sleeve  and  then  he 
turned  half  contemptuously  to  June: 

"I  hain't  done  it" — adding  grimly — "not  yit. 
He's  as  safe  as  you  air.  I  hope  you're  satisfied 
that  hit  hain't  him  'stid  o'  yo'  daddy  thar." 

"Are  you  going  to  the  Gap  for  a  doctor  ?" 

"I  reckon  I  can't  leave  Bub  here  alone  agin  all 
the  Falins — not  even  to  git  a  doctor  or  to  carry  a 
love-message  fer  you." 

360 


THE  TRAIL  OF  THE  LONESOME  PINE 

" Then  I'll  go  myself." 

A  thick  protest  came  from  the  bed,  and  then  an 
appeal  that  might  have  come  from  a  child. 

"Don't  leave  me,  Juny."  Without  a  word  June 
went  into  the  kitchen  and  got  the  old  bark  horn. 

"Uncle  Billy  will  go,"  she  said,  and  she  stepped 
out  on  the  porch.  But  Uncle  Billy  was  already  on 
his  way  and  she  heard  him  coming  just  as  she  was 
raising  the  horn  to  her  lips.  She  met  him  at  the 
gate,  and  without  even  taking  the  time  to  come 
into  the  house  the  old  miller  hurried  upward  tow- 
ard the  Lonesome  Pine.  The  rain  came  then — 
the  rain  that  the  tiny  cobwebs  had  heralded  at 
dawn  that  morning.  The  old  step-mother  had 
not  come  home,  and  June  told  Bub  she  had  gone 
over  the  mountain  to  see  her  sister,  and  when,  as 
darkness  fell,  she  did  not  appear  they  knew  that 
she  must  have  been  caught  by  the  rain  and  would 
spend  the  night  with  a  neighbour.  June  asked  no 
question,  but  from  the  low  talk  of  Bub  and  Dave 
she  made  out  what  had  happened  in  town  that  day 
and  a  wild  elation  settled  in  her  heart  that  John 
Hale  was  alive  and  unhurt — though  Rufe  was 
dead,  her  father  wounded,  and  Bub  and  Dave 
both  had  but  narrowly  escaped  the  Falin  assassins 
that  afternoon.  Bub  took  the  first  turn  at  watch- 
ing while  Dave  slept,  and  when  it  was  Dave's 
turn  she  saw  him  drop  quickly  asleep  in  his  chair, 
and  she  was  left  alone  with  the  breathing  of  the 
wounded  man  and  the  beating  of  rain  on  the  roof. 


THE  TRAIL  OF  THE  LONESOME  PINE 

And  through  the  long  night  June  thought  her 
brain  weary  over  herself,  her  life,  her  people,  and 
Hale.  They  were  not  to  blame — her  people,  they 
but  did  as  their  fathers  had  done  before  them. 
They  had  their  own  code  and  they  lived  up  to  it 
as  best  they  could,  and  they  had  had  no  chance  to 
learn  another.  She  felt  the  vindictive  hatred  that 
had  prolonged  the  feud.  Had  she  been  a  man,  she 
could  not  have  rested  until  she  had  slain  the  man 
who  had  ambushed  her  father.  She  expected  Bub 
to  do  that  now,  and  if  the  spirit  was  so  strong  in 
her  with  the  training  she  had  had,  how  helpless 
they  must  be  against  it.  Even  Dave  was  not  to 
blame — not  to  blame  for  loving  her — he  had  always 
done  that.  For  that  reason  he  could  not  help  ha- 
ting Hale,  and  how  great  a  reason  he  had  now,  for 
he  could  not  understand  as  she  could  the  absence 
of  any  personal  motive  that  had  governed  him  in 
the  prosecution  of  the  law,  no  matter  if  he  hurt 
friend  or  foe.  But  for  Hale,  she  would  have  loved 
Dave  and  now  be  married  to  him  and  happier 
than  she  was.  Dave  saw  that — no  wonder  he  hated 
Hale.  And  as  she  slowly  realized  all  these  things, 
she  grew  calm  and  gentle  and  determined  to  stick 
to  her  people  and  do  the  best  she  could  with  her 
life. 

And  now  and  then  through  the  night  old  Judd 
would  open  his  eyes  and  stare  at  the  ceiling,  and 
at  these  times  it  was  not  the  pain  in  his  face  that 
distressed  her  as  much  as  the  drawn  beaten  look 

362 


THE  TRAIL  OF  THE  LONESOME  PINE 

that  she  had  noticed  growing  in  it  for  a  long  time. 
It  was  terrible — that  helpless  look  in  the  face  of  a 
man,  so  big  in  body,  so  strong  of  mind,  so  iron- 
like  in  will;  and  whenever  he  did  speak  she  knew 
what  he  was  going  to  say: 

"  It's  all  over,  Juny.  They've  beat  us  on  every 
turn.  They've  got  us  one  by  one.  Thar  ain't  but 
a  few  of  us  left  now  and  when  I  git  up,  if  I  ever 
do,  I'm  goin'  to  gether  'em  all  together,  pull  up 
stakes  and  take  'em  all  West.  You  won't  ever 
leave  me,  Juny?" 

"No,  Dad,"  she  would  say  gently.  He  had 
asked  the  question  at  first  quite  sanely,  but  as  the 
night  wore  on  and  the  fever  grew  and  his  mind 
wandered,  he  would  repeat  the  question  over  and 
over  like  a  child,  and  over  and  over,  while  Bub 
and  Dave  slept  and  the  rain  poured,  June  would 
repeat  her  answer: 

"I'll  never  leave  you,  Dad." 


363 


XXXI 

T3EFORE  dawn  Hale  and  the  doctor  and  the 
-*-*  old  miller  had  reached  the  Pine,  and  there 
Hale  stopped.  Any  farther,  the  old  man  told  him, 
he  would  go  only  at  the  risk  of  his  life  from  Dave 
or  Bub,  or  even  from  any  Falin  who  happened  to 
be  hanging  around  in  the  bushes,  for  Hale  was 
hated  equally  by  both  factions  now. 

"I'll  wait  up  here  until  noon,  Uncle  Billy,"  said 
Hale.  "Ask  her,  for  God's  sake,  to  come  up  here 
and  see  me." 

"All  right.  I'll  axe  her,  but—"  the  old  miller 
shook  his  head.  Breakfastless,  except  for  the 
munching  of  a  piece  of  chocolate,  Hale  waited  all 
the  morning  with  his  black  horse  in  the  bushes 
some  thirty  yards  from  the  Lonesome  Pine. 
Every  now  and  then  he  would  go  to  the  tree  and 
look  down  the  path,  and  once  he  slipped  far  down 
the  trail  and  aside  to  a  spur  whence  he  could  see 
the  cabin  in  the  cove.  Once  his  hungry  eyes 
caught  sight  of  a  woman's  figure  walking  through 
the  little  garden,  and  for  an  hour  after  it  disap- 
peared into  the  house  he  watched  for  it  to  come 
out  again.  But  nothing  more  was  visible,  and  he 
turned  back  to  the  trail  to  see  Uncle  Billy  labori- 

364 


THE  TRAIL  OF  THE  LONESOME  PINE 

ously  climbing  up  the  slope.  Hale  waited  and  ran 
down  to  meet  him,  his  face  and  eyes  eager  and  his 
lips  trembling,  but  again  Uncle  Billy  was  shaking 
his  head. 

"No  use,  John,"  he  said  sadly.  "I  got  her  out 
on  the  porch  and  axed  her,  but  she  won't  come." 

"She  won't  come  at  all?" 

''John,  when  one  o'  them  Tollivers  gits  white 
about  the  mouth,  an'  thar  eyes  gits  to  blazin'  and 
they  keeps  quiet — they're  plumb  out  o'  reach  o' 
the  Almighty  hisself.  June  skeered  me.  But  you 
mustn't  blame  her  jes'  now.  You  see,  you  got  up 
that  guard.  You  ketched  Rufe  and  hung  him,  and 
she  can't  help  thinkin'  if  you  hadn't  done  that, 
her  old  daddy  wouldn't  be  in  thar  on  his  back 
nigh  to  death.  You  mustn't  blame  her,  John — 
she's  most  out  o'  her  head  now." 

"All  right,  Uncle  Billy.  Good-by."  Hale 
turned,  climbed  sadly  back  to  his  horse  and  sadly 
dropped  down  the  other  side  of  the  mountain  and 
on  through  the  rocky  gap — home. 

A  week  later  he  learned  from  the  doctor  that 
the  chances  were  even  that  old  Judd  would  get  well, 
but  the  days  went  by  with  no  word  of  June. 
Through  those  days  June  wrestled  with  her  love 
for  Hale  and  her  loyalty  to  her  father,  who,  sick  as 
he  was,  seemed  to  have  a  vague  sense  of  the  trouble 
within  her  and  shrewdly  fought  it  by  making  her 
daily  promise  that  she  would  never  leave  him.  For 
as  old  Judd  got  better,  June's  fierceness  against 

365 


THE  TRAIL  OF  THE  LONESOME  PINE 

Hale  melted  and  her  love  came  out  the  stronger, 
because  of  the  passing  injustice  that  she  had  done 
him.  Many  times  she  was  on  the  point  of  sending 
him  word  that  she  would  meet  him  at  the  Pine,  but 
she  was  afraid  of  her  own  strength  if  she  should 
see  him  face  to  face,  and  she  feared  she  would  be 
risking  his  life  if  she  allowed  him  to  come.  There 
were  times  when  she  would  have  gone  to  him  her- 
self, had  her  father  been  well  and  strong,  but  he 
was  old,  beaten  and  helpless,  and  she  had  given 
her  sacred  word  that  she  would  never  leave  him. 
So  once  more  she  grew  calmer,  gentler  still,  and 
more  determined  to  follow  her  own  way  with  her 
own  kin,  though  that  way  led  through  a  breaking 
heart.  She  never  mentioned  Hale's  name,  she 
never  spoke  of  going  West,  and  in  time  Dave  be- 
gan to  wonder  not  only  if  she  had  not  gotten  over 
her  feeling  for  Hale,  but  if  that  feeling  had  not 
turned  into  permanent  hate.  To  him,  June  was 
kinder  than  ever,  because  she  understood  him 
better  and  because  she  was  sorry  for  the  hunted, 
hounded  life  he  led,  not  knowing,  when  on  his 
trips  to  see  her  or  to  do  some  service  for  her  father, 
he  might  be  picked  off  by  some  Falin  from  the 
bushes.  So  Dave  stopped  his  sneering  remarks 
against  Hale  and  began  to  dream  his  old  dreams, 
though  he  never  opened  his  lips  to  June,  and  she 
was  unconscious  of  what  was  going  on  within  him. 
By  and  by,  as  old  Judd  began  to  mend,  overtures 
of  peace  came,  singularly  enough,  from  the  Falins, 


THE  TRAIT,  OF  THE  LONESOME  PINE 

and  while  the  old  man  snorted  with  contemptuous 
disbelief  at  them  as  a  pretence  to  throw  him  off 
his  guard,  Dave  began  actually  to  believe  that 
they  were  sincere,  and  straightway  forged  a  plan 
of  his  own,  even  if  the  Tollivers  did  persist  in  going 
West.  So  one  morning  as  he  mounted  his  horse 
at  old  Judd's  gate,  he  called  to  June  in  the  gar- 
den: 

"I'm  a-goin'  over  to  the  Gap."  June  paled,  but 
Dave  was  not  looking  at  her. 

"What  for?"  she  asked,  steadying  her  voice. 

"Business,"  he  answered,  and  he  laughed  curi- 
ously and,  still  without  looking  at  her,  rode  away. 

Hale  sat  in  the  porch  of  his  little  office  that 
morning,  and  the  Hon.  Sam  Budd,  who  had  risen 
to  leave,  stood  with  his  hands  deep  in  his  pockets, 
his  hat  tilted  far  over  his  big  goggles,  looking  down 
at  the  dead  leaves  that  floated  like  lost  hopes  on 
the  placid  mill-pond.  Hale  had  agreed  to  go  to 
England  once  more  on  the  sole  chance  left  him 
before  he  went  back  to  chain  and  compass — the 
old  land  deal  that  had  come  to  life — and  between 
them  they  had  about  enough  money  for  the  trip. 

"You'll  keep  an  eye  on  things  over  there?" 
said  Hale  with  a  backward  motion  of  his  head 
toward  Lonesome  Cove,  and  the  Hon.  Sam 
nodded  his  head: 

"All  I  can." 

"Those  big  trunks  of  hers  are  still  here."    The 

367 


THE  TRAIL  OF  THE  LONESOME  PINE 

Hon.  Sam  smiled.  "She  won't  need  'em.  I'll 
keep  an  eye  on  'em  and  she  can  come  over  and  get 
what  she  wants — every  year  or  two,"  he  added 
grimly,  and  Hale  groaned. 

"Stop  it,  Sam." 

"All  right.  You  ain't  goin'  to  try  to  see  her 
before  you  leave?"  And  then  at  the  look  on 
Hale's  face  he  said  hurriedly:  "All  right — all 
right,"  and  with  a  toss  of  his  hands  turned  away, 
while  Hale  sat  thinking  where  he  was. 

Rufe  Tolliver  had  been  quite  right  as  to  the 
Red  Fox.  Nobody  would  risk  his  life  for  him — 
there  was  no  one  to  attempt  a  rescue,  and  but  a  few 
of  the  guards  were  on  hand  this  time  to  carry  out 
the  law.  On  the  last  day  he  had  appeared  in  his 
white  suit  of  tablecloth.  The  little  old  woman  in 
black  had  made  even  the  cap  that  was  to  be 
drawn  over  his  face,  and  that,  too,  she  had  made 
of  white.  Moreover,  she  would  have  his  body 
kept  unburied  for  three  days,  because  the  Red 
Fox  said  that  on  the  third  day  he  would  arise  and 
go  about  preaching.  So  that  even  in  death  the 
Red  Fox  was  consistently  inconsistent,  and  how  he 
reconciled  such  a  dual  life  at  one  and  the  same 
time  over  and  under  the  stars  was,  except  to  his 
twisted  brain,  never  known.  He  walked  firmly  up 
the  scaffold  steps  and  stood  there  blinking  in  the 
sunlight.  With  one  hand  he  tested  the  rope.  For 
a  moment  he  looked  at  the  sky  and  the  trees  with 
a  face  that  was  white  and  absolutely  expressionless. 


THE  TRAIL  OF  THE  LONESOME  PINE 

Then  he  sang  one  hymn  of  two  verses  and  quietly 
dropped  into  that  world  in  which  he  believed  so 
firmly  and  toward  which  he  had  trod  so  strange 
a  way  on  earth.  As  he  wished,  the  little  old  woman 
in  black  had  the  body  kept  unburied  for  the  three 
days — but  the  Red  Fox  never  rose.  With  his  pass- 
ing, law  and  order  had  become  supreme.  Neither 
Tolliver  nor  Falin  came  on  the  Virginia  side  for 
mischief,  and  the  desperadoes  of  two  sister  States, 
whose  skirts  are  stitched  together  with  pine  and 
pin-oak  along  the  crest  of  the  Cumberland,  con- 
fined their  deviltries  with  great  care  to  places  long 
distant  from  the  Gap.  John  Hale  had  done  a 
great  work,  but  the  limit  of  his  activities  was  that 
State  line  and  the  Falins,  ever  threatening  that 
they  would  not  leave  a  Tolliver  alive,  could  carry 
out  those  threats  and  Hale  not  be  able  to  lift  a 
hand.  It  was  his  helplessness  that  was  making 
him  writhe  now. 

Old  Judd  had  often  said  he  meant  to  leave  the 
mountains — why  didn't  he  go  now  and  take  June 
for  whose  safety  his  heart  was  always  in  his  mouth  ? 
As  an  officer,  he  was  now  helpless  where  he  was; 
and  if  he  went  away  he  could  give  no  personal  aid 
— he  would  not  even  know  what  was  happening — 
and  he  had  promised  Budd  to  go.  An  open  letter 
was  clutched  in  his  hand,  and  again  he  read  it. 
His  coal  company  had  accepted  his  last  proposi- 
tion. They  would  take  his  stock — worthless  as 
they  thought  it — and  surrender  the  cabin  and  two 

369 


THE  TRAIL  OF  THE  LONESOME  PINE 

hundred  acres  of  field  and  woodland  in  Lonesome 
Cove.  That  much  at  least  would  be  intact,  but  if 
he  failed  in  his  last  project  now,  it  would  be  sub- 
ject to  judgments  against  him  that  were  sure  to 
come.  So  there  was  one  thing  more  to  do  for 
June  before  he  left  for  the  final  effort  in  England — 
to  give  back  her  home  to  her — and  as  he  rose  to 
do  it  now,  somebody  shouted  at  his  gate: 

"Hello!"  Hale  stopped  short  at  the  head  of 
the  steps,  his  right  hand  shot  like  a  shaft  of  light 
to  the  butt  of  his  pistol,  stayed  there — and  he 
stood  astounded.  It  was  Dave  Tolliver  on  horse- 
back, and  Dave's  right  hand  had  kept  hold  of  his 
bridle-reins. 

"Hold  on!"  he  said,  lifting  the  other  with  a 
wide  gesture  of  peace.  "  I  want  to  talk  with  you 
a  bit."  Still  Hale  watched  him  closely  as  he 
swung  from  his  horse. 

"  Come  in — won't  you  ? "  The  mountaineer 
hitched  his  horse  and  slouched  within  the  gate. 

"Have  a  seat."    Dave  dropped  to  the  steps. 

"I'll  set  here,"  he  said,  and  there  was  an  em- 
barrassed silence  for  a  while  between  the  two. 
Hale  studied  young  Dave's  face  from  narrowed 
eyes.  He  knew  all  the  threats  the  Tolliver  had 
made  against  him,  the  bitter  enmity  that  he  felt, 
and  that  it  would  last  until  one  or  the  other  was 
dead.  This  was  a  queer  move.  The  mountaineer 
took  off  his  slouched  hat  and  ran  one  hand  through 
his  thick  black  hair. 

370 


THE  TRAIL  OF  THE  LONESOME  PINE 

"  I  reckon  you've  heard  as  how  all  our  folks  air 
sellin'  out  over  the  mountains." 

"No,"  said  Hale  quickly. 

"  Well,  they  air,  an*  all  of  'em  are  going  West — 
Uncle  Judd,  Loretty  and  June,  and  all  our  kin- 
folks.  You  didn't  know  that  ?" 

"No,"  repeated  Hale. 

"Well,  they  hain't  closed  all  the  trades  yit,"  he 
said,  "an'  they  mought  not  go  mebbe  afore 
spring.  The  Falins  say  they  air  done  now.  Uncle 
Judd  don't  believe  'em,  but  I  do,  an'  I'm 
thinkin'  I  won't  go.  I've  got  a  leetle  money,  an'  I 
want  to  know  if  I  can't  buy  back  Uncle  Judd's 
house  an'  a  leetle  ground  around  it.  Our  folks  is 
tired  o'  fightin'  and  I  couldn't  live  on  t'other  side 
of  the  mountain,  after  they  air  gone,  an'  keep  as 
healthy  as  on  this  side — so  I  thought  I'd  see  if  I 
couldn't  buy  back  June's  old  home,  mebbe,  an' 
live  thar." 

Hale  watched  him  keenly,  wondering  what  his 
game  was — and  he  went  on:  "I  know  the  house 
an'  land  ain't  wuth  much  to  your  company,  an'  as 
the  coal-vein  has  petered  out,  I  reckon  they  might 
not  axe  much  fer  it."  It  was  all  out  now,  and  he 
stopped  without  looking  at  Hale.  "I  ain't  axin' 
any  favours,  leastwise  not  o'  you,  an'  I  thought 
my  share  o'  Mam's  farm  mought  be  enough  to  git 
me  the  house  an'  some  o'  the  land." 

"You  mean  to  live  there,  yourself?" 

"Yes." 

371 


THE  TRAIL  OF  THE  LONESOME  PINE 

"Alone  ?"    Dave  frowned. 

"I  reckon  that's  my  business." 

"So  it  is — excuse  me."  Hale  lighted  his  pipe 
and  the  mountaineer  waited — he  was  a  little  sullen 
now. 

"Well,  the  company  has  parted  with  the 
land."  Dave  started. 

"Sold  it?" 

"In  a  way — yes." 

"Well,  would  you  mind  tellin'  me  who  bought 
it — maybe  I  can  git  it  from  him." 

"It's  mine  now,"  said  Hale  quietly. 

"Tourn!"  The  mountaineer  looked  incredu- 
lous and  then  he  let  loose  a  scornful  laugh. 

"  You  goin'  to  live  thar  ?" 

"Maybe." 

"Alone?" 

"That's  my  business."  The  mountaineer's  face 
darkened  and  his  fingers  began  to  twitch. 

"Well,  if  you're  talkin'  'bout  June,  hit's  my 
business.  Hit  always  has  been  and  hit  always  will 
be." 

"Well,  if  I  was  talking  about  June,  I  wouldn't 
consult  you." 

"No,  but  I'd  consult  you  like  hell." 

"I  wish  you  had  the  chance,"  said  Hale  coolly; 
"but  I  wasn't  talking  about  June."  Again  Dave 
laughed  harshly,  and  for  a  moment  his  angry  eyes 
rested  on  the  quiet  mill-pond.  He  went  backward 
suddenly. 

372 


THE  TRAIL  OF  THE  LONESOME  PINE 

"You  went  over  thar  in  Lonesome  with  your 
high  notions  an'  your  slick  tongue,  an'  you  took 
June  away  from  me.  But  she  wusn't  good  enough 
fer  you  then — so  you  filled  her  up  with  yo'  fool 
notions  an'  sent  her  away  to  git  her  po'  little  head 
filled  with  furrin'  ways,  so  she  could  be  fitten  to 
marry  you.  You  took  her  away  from  her  daddy, 
her  family,  her  kinfolks  and  her  home,  an'  you 
took  her  away  from  me;  an'  now  she's  been  over 
thar  eatin'  her  heart  out  just  as  she  et  it  out  over 
here  when  she  fust  left  home.  An'  in  the  end  she 
got  so  highfalutin  that  she  wouldn't  marry  you." 
He  laughed  again  and  Hale  winced  under  the 
laugh  and  the  lashing  words.  "An'  I  know  you 
air  eatin'  yo'  heart  out,  too,  because  you  can't  git 
June,  an'  I'm  hopin'  you'll  suffer  the  torment  o' 
hell  as  long  as  you  live.  God,  she  hates  ye  now! 
To  think  o'  your  knowin'  the  world  and  women 
and  books" — he  spoke  with  vindictive  and  in- 
sulting slowness—  "You  bein'  such  a fool!" 

"That  may  all  be  true,  but  I  think  you  can  talk 
better  outside  that  gate."  The  mountaineer,  de- 
ceived by  Hale's  calm  voice,  sprang  to  his  feet  in 
a  fury,  but  he  was  too  late.  Hale's  hand  was  on 
the  butt  of  his  revolver,  his  blue  eyes  were  glitter- 
ing and  a  dangerous  smile  was  at  his  lips.  Silently 
he  sat  and  silently  he  pointed  his  other  hand  at  the 
gate.  Dave  laughed: 

"D'ye  think  I'd  fight  you  hyeh  ?  If  you  killed 
me,  you'd  be  elected  County  Jedge;  if  I  killed  you, 

373 


THE  TRAIL  OF  THE  LONESOME  PINE 

what  chance  would  I  have  o'  gittin'  away  ?  I'd 
swing  fer  it."  He  was  outside  the  gate  now  and 
unhitching  his  horse.  He  started  to  turn  the  beast, 
but  Hale  stopped  him. 

"Get  on  from  this  side,  please." 

With  one  foot  in  the  stirrup,  Dave  turned  sav- 
agely: "Why  don't  you  go  up  in  the  Gap  with  me 
now  an'  fight  it  out  like  a  man  ?" 

"I  don't  trust  you/' 

"I'll  git  ye  over  in  the  mountains  some  day." 

"  I've  no  doubt  you  will,  if  you  have  the  chance 
from  the  bush."  Hale  was  getting  roused  now. 

"Look  here,"  he  said  suddenly,  "you've  been 
threatening  me  for  a  long  time  now.  I've  never  had 
any  feeling  against  you.  I've  never  done  anything 
to  you  that  I  hadn't  to  do.  But  you've  gone  a 
little  too  far  now  and  I'm  tired.  If  you  can't  get 
over  your  grudge  against  me,  suppose  we  go  across 
the  river  outside  the  town-limits,  put  our  guns 
down  and  fight  it  out — fist  and  skull." 

"I'm  your  man,"  said  Dave  eagerly.  Look- 
ing across  the  street  Hale  saw  two  men  on  the 
porch. 

"Come  on!"  he  said.  The  two  men  were  Budd 
and  the  new  town-sergeant.  "Sam,"  he  said, 
"  this  gentleman  and  I  are  going  across  the  river  to 
have  a  little  friendly  bout,  and  I  wish  you'd  come 
along — and  you,  too,  Bill,  to  see  that  Dave  here 
gets  fair  play." 

The  sergeant  spoke  to  Dave.    "You  don't  need 

374 


THE  TRAIL  OF  THE  LONESOME  PINE 

nobody  to  see  that  you  git  fair  play  with  them  two 
— but  I'll  go  'long  just  the  same."  Hardly  a  word 
was  said  as  the  four  walked  across  the  bridge  and 
toward  a  thicket  to  the  right.  Neither  Budd  nor 
the  sergeant  asked  the  nature  of  the  trouble,  for 
either  could  have  guessed  what  it  was.  Dave  tied 
his  horse  and,  like  Hale,  stripped  off  his  coat. 
The  sergeant  took  charge  of  Dave's  pistol  and 
BuddofHale's. 

"All  you've  got  to  do  is  to  keep  him  away  from 
you,"  said  Budd.  "If  he  gets  his  hands  on  you — 
you're  gone.  You  know  how  they  fight  rough- 
and-tumble." 

Hale  nodded — he  knew  all  that  himself,  and 
when  he  looked  at  Dave's  sturdy  neck,  and  gigan- 
tic shoulders,  he  knew  further  that  if  the  moun- 
taineer got  him  in  his  grasp  he  would  have  to  gasp 
"enough"  in  a  hurry,  or  be  saved  by  Budd  from 
being  throttled  to  death. 

"Are  you  ready  ?"    Again  Hale  nodded. 

"Go  ahead,  Dave,"  growled  the  sergeant,  for 
the  job  was  not  to  his  liking.  Dave  did  not  plunge 
toward  Hale,  as  the  three  others  expected.  On 
the  contrary,  he  assumed  the  conventional  attitude 
of  the  boxer  and  advanced  warily,  using  his  head 
as  a  diagnostician  for  Hale's  points — and  Hale 
remembered  suddenly  that  Dave  had  been  away 
at  school  for  a  year.  Dave  knew  something  of  the 
game  and  the  Hon.  Sam  straightway  was  anxious, 
when  the  mountaineer  ducked  and  swung  his  left. 

375 


THE  TRAIL  OF  THE  LONESOME  PINE 

BudcTs  heart  thumped  and  he  almost  shrank  him- 
self from  the  terrific  sweep  of  the  big  fist. 

"God!"  he  muttered,  for  had  the  fist  caught 
Hale's  head  it  must,  it  seemed,  have  crushed  it  like 
an  egg-shell.  Hale  coolly  withdrew  his  head  not 
more  than  an  inch,  it  seemed  to  Budd's  practised 
eye,  and  jabbed  his  right  with  a  lightning  uppercut 
into  Dave's  jaw,  that  made  the  mountaineer  reel 
backward  with  a  grunt  of  rage  and  pain,  and 
when  he  followed  it  up  with  a  swing  of  his  left  on 
Dave's  right  eye  and  another  terrific  jolt  with  his 
right  on  the  left  jaw,  and  Budd  saw  the  crazy  rage 
in  the  mountaineer's  face,  he  felt  easy.  In  that 
rage  Dave  forgot  his  science  as  the  Hon.  Sam  ex- 
pected, and  with  a  bellow  he  started  at  Hale  like 
a  cave-dweller  to  bite,  tear,  and  throttle,  but  the 
lithe  figure  before  him  swayed  this  way  and  that 
like  a  shadow,  and  with  every  side-step  a  fist 
crushed  on  the  mountaineer's  nose,  chin  or  jaw, 
until,  blinded  with  blood  and  fury,  Dave  staggered 
aside  toward  the  sergeant  with  the  cry  of  a  mad- 
man: 

"Gimme  my  gun!  I'll  kill  him!  Gimme  my 
gun!"  And  when  the  sergeant  sprang  forward 
and  caught  the  mountaineer,  he  dropped  weeping 
with  rage  and  shame  to  the  ground. 

"You  two  just  go  back  to  town,"  said  the  ser- 
geant. "I'll  take  keer  of  him.  Quick!"  and  he 
shook  his  head  as  Hale  advanced.  "He  ain't  goin' 
to  shake  hands  with  you." 

376 


THE  TRAIL  OF  THE  LONESOME  PINE 

The  two  turned  back  across  the  bridge  and 
Hale  went  on  to  Budd's  office  to  do  what  he  was 
setting  out  to  do  when  young  Dave  came.  There 
he  had  the  lawyer  make  out  a  deed  in  which  the 
cabin  in  Lonesome  Cove  and  the  acres  about  it 
were  conveyed  in  fee  simple  to  June — her  heirs 
and  assigns  forever;  but  the  girl  must  not  know 
until,  Hale  said,  "her  father  dies,  or  I  die,  or  she 
marries."  When  he  came  out  the  sergeant  was 
passing  the  door. 

"Ain't  no  use  fightin'  with  one  o5  them  fellers 
thataway,"  he  said,  shaking  his  head.  "If  he 
whoops  you,  he'll  crow  over  you  as  long  as  he  lives, 
and  if  you  whoop  him,  he'll  kill  ye  the  fust  chance 
he  gets.  You'll  have  to  watch  that  feller  as  long 
as  you  live — 'specially  when  he's  drinking.  He'll 
remember  that  lickin*  and  want  revenge  fer  it  till 
the  grave.  One  of  you  has  got  to  die  some  day — 
shore." 

And  the  sergeant  was  right.  Dave  was  going 
through  the  Gap  at  that  moment,  cursing,  swaying 
like  a  drunken  man,  firing  his  pistol  and  shouting 
his  revenge  to  the  echoing  gray  walls  that  took  up 
his  cries  and  sent  them  shrieking  on  the  wind  up 
every  dark  ravine.  All  the  way  up  the  mountain 
he  was  cursing.  Under  the  gentle  voice  of  the  big 
Pine  he  was  cursing  still,  and  when  his  lips  stopped, 
his  heart  was  beating  curses  as  he  dropped  down 
the  other  side  of  the  mountain. 

When  he  reached  the  river,  he  got  off  his  horse 

377 


THE  TRAIL  OF  THE  LONESOME  PINE 

and  bathed  his  mouth  and  his  eyes  again,  and  he 
cursed  afresh  when  the  blood  started  afresh  at  his 
lips  again.  For  a  while  he  sat  there  in  his  black 
mood,  undecided  whether  he  should  go  to  his 
uncle's  cabin  or  go  on  home.  But  he  had  seen  a 
woman's  figure  in  the  garden  as  he  came  down  the 
spur,  and  the  thought  of  June  drew  him  to  the 
cabin  in  spite  of  his  shame  and  the  questions  that 
were  sure  to  be  asked.  When  he  passed  around 
the  clump  of  rhododendrons  at  the  creek,  June 
was  in  the  garden  still.  She  was  pruning  a  rose- 
bush with  Bub's  penknife,  and  when  she  heard 
him  coming  she  wheeled,  quivering.  She  had 
been  waiting  for  him  all  day,  and,  like  an  angry 
goddess,  she  swept  fiercely  toward  him.  Dave 
pretended  not  to  see  her,  but  when  he  swung  from 
his  horse  and  lifted  his  sullen  eyes,  he  shrank  as 
though  she  had  lashed  him  across  them  with  a 
whip.  Her  eyes  blazed  with  murderous  fire  from 
her  white  face,  the  penknife  in  her  hand  was 
clenched  as  though  for  a  deadly  purpose,  and  on 
her  trembling  lips  was  the  same  question  that  she 
had  asked  him  at  the  mill: 

"Have  you  done  it  this  time?"  she  whispered, 
and  then  she  saw  his  swollen  mouth  and  his  bat- 
tered eye.  Her  fingers  relaxed  about  the  handle  of 
the  knife,  the  fire  in  her  eyes  went  swiftly  down, 
and  with  a  smile  that  was  half  pity,  half  contempt, 
she  turned  away.  She  could  not  have  told  the 
whole  truth  better  in  words,  even  to  Dave,  and  as 

378 


THE  TRAIL  OF  THE  LONESOME  PINE 

he  looked  after  her  his  every  pulse-beat  was  a  new 
curse,  and  if  at  that  minute  he  could  have  had 
Hale's  heart  he  would  have  eaten  it  like  a  savage — 
raw.  For  a  minute  he  hesitated  with  reins  in 
hand  as  to  whether  he  should  turn  now  and  go 
back  to  the  Gap  to  settle  with  Hale,  and  then  he 
threw  the  reins  over  a  post.  He  could  bide  his 
time  yet  a  little  longer,  for  a  crafty  purpose  sud- 
denly entered  his  brain.  Bub  met  him  at  the  door 
of  the  cabin  and  his  eyes  opened. 

"What's  the  matter,  Dave?" 

"Oh,  nothin',"  he  said  carelessly.  "My  hoss 
stumbled  comin'  down  the  mountain  an'  I  went 
clean  over  his  head."  He  raised  one  hand  to  his 
mouth  and  still  Bub  was  suspicious. 

"Looks  like  you  been  in  a  fight."  The  boy 
began  to  laugh,  but  Dave  ignored  him  and  went 
on  into  the  cabin.  Within,  he  sat  where  he  could 
see  through  the  open  door. 

"  Whar  you  been,  Dave  ?"  asked  old  Judd  from 
the  corner.  Just  then  he  saw  June  coming  and,  pre- 
tending to  draw  on  his  pipe,  he  waited  until  she  had 
sat  down  within  ear-shot  on  the  edge  of  the  porch. 

"Who  do  you  reckon  owns  this  house  and  two 
hundred  acres  o'  land  roundabouts?" 

The  girl's  heart  waited  apprehensively  and  she 
heard  her  father's  deep  voice. 

"  The  company  owns  it."    Dave  laughed  harshly. 

"Not  much — John  Hale."  The  heart  out  on 
the  porch  leaped  with  gladness  now 

379 


THE  TRAIL  OF  THE  LONESOME  PINE 

"He  bought  it  from  the  company.  It's  just  as 
well  you're  goin'  away,  Uncle  Judd.  He'd  put 
you  out." 

"  I  reckon  not.  I  got  writin'  from  the  company 
which  'lows  me  to  stay  here  two  year  or  more — if 
I  want  to." 

"I  don't  know.    He's  a  slick  one." 

"I  heerd  him  say,"  put  in  Bub  stoutly,  "that 
he'd  see  that  we  stayed  here  jus'  as  long  as  we 
pleased." 

"Well,"  said  old  Judd  shortly,  "ef  we  stay  here 
by  his  favour,  we  won't  stay  long." 

There  was  silence  for  a  while.  Then  Dave 
spoke  again  for  the  listening  ears  outside — 
maliciously: 

"  I  went  over  to  the  Gap  to  see  if  I  couldn't  git 
the  place  myself  from  the  company.  I  believe  the 
Falins  ain't  goin'  to  bother  us  an'  I  ain't  hankerin' 
to  go  West.  But  I  told  him  that  you-all  was  goin' 
to  leave  the  mountains  and  goin'  out  thar  fer 
good."  There  was  another  silence. 

"He  never  said  a  word."  Nobody  had  asked 
the  question,  but  he  was  answering  the  unspoken 
one  in  the  heart  of  June,  and  that  heart  sank  like 
a  stone. 

"He's  goin'  away  hisself — goin'  ter-morrow — 
goin'  to  that  same  place  he  went  before — England, 
some  feller  called  it." 

Dave  had  done  his  work  well.  June  rose  un- 
steadily, and  with  one  hand  on  her  heart  and  the 

380 


THE  TRAIL  OF  THE  LONESOME  PINE 

other  clutching  the  railing  of  the  porch,  she  crept 
noiselessly  along  it,  staggered  like  a  wounded  thing 
around  the  chimney,  through  the  garden  and  on, 
still  clutching  her  heart,  to  the  woods — there  to 
sob  it  out  on  the  breast  of  the  only  mother  she  had 
ever  known. 

Dave  was  gone  when  she  came  back  from  the 
woods — calm,  dry-eyed,  pale.  Her  step-mother 
had  kept  her  dinner  for  her,  and  when  she  said  she 
wanted  nothing  to  eat,  the  old  woman  answered 
something  querulous  to  which  June  made  no  an- 
swer, but  went  quietly  to  cleaning  away  the 
dishes.  For  a  while  she  sat  on  the  porch,  and 
presently  she  went  into  her  room  and  for  a  few 
moments  she  rocked  quietly  at  her  window.  Hale 
was  going  away  next  day,  and  when  he  came 
back  she  would  be  gone  and  she  would  never  see 
him  again.  A  dry  sob  shook  her  body  of  a  sudden, 
she  put  both  hands  to  her  head  and  with  wild  eyes 
she  sprang  to  her  feet  and,  catching  up  her  bonnet, 
slipped  noiselessly  out  the  back  door.  With  hands 
clenched  tight  she  forced  herself  to  walk  slowly 
across  the  foot-bridge,  but  when  the  bushes  hid 
her,  she  broke  into  a  run  as  though  she  were  crazed 
and  escaping  a  madhouse.  At  the  foot  of  the  spur 
she  turned  swiftly  up  the  mountain  and  climbed 
madly,  with  one  hand  tight  against  the  little  cross 
at  her  throat.  He  was  going  away  and  she  must 
tell  him — she  must  tell  him — what  ?  Behind  her 
a  voice  was  calling,  the  voice  that  pleaded  all  one 

381 


THE  TRAIL  OF  THE  LONESOME  PINE 

night  for  her  not  to  leave  him,  that  had  made  that 
plea  a  daily  prayer,  and  it  had  come  from  an  old 
man — wounded,  broken  in  health  and  heart,  and 
her  father.  Hale's  face  was  before  her,  but  that 
voice  was  behind,  and  as  she  climbed,  the  face 
that  she  was  nearing  grew  fainter,  the  voice  she 
was  leaving  sounded  the  louder  in  her  ears,  and 
when  she  reached  the  big  Pine  she  dropped  help- 
lessly at  the  base  of  it,  sobbing.  With  her  tears  the 
madness  slowly  left  her,  the  old  determination 
came  back  again  and  at  last  the  old  sad  peace. 
The  sunlight  was  slanting  at  a  low  angle  when  she 
rose  to  her  feet  and  stood  on  the  cliff  overlooking  the 
valley — her  lips  parted  as  when  she  stood  there 
first,  and  the  tiny  drops  drying  along  the  roots  of 
her  dull  gold  hair.  And  being  there  for  the  last 
time  she  thought  of  that  time  when  she  was  first 
there — ages  ago.  The  great  glare  of  light  that  she 
looked  for  then  had  come  and  gone.  There  was 
the  smoking  monster  rushing  into  the  valley  and 
sending  echoing  shrieks  through  the  hills — but 
there  was  no  booted  stranger  and  no  horse  issuing 
from  the  covert  of  maple  where  the  path  disap- 
peared. A  long  time  she  stood  there,  with  a  wan- 
dering look  of  farewell  to  every  familiar  thing  be- 
fore her,  but  not  a  tear  came  now.  Only  as  she 
turned  away  at  last  her  breast  heaved  and  fell 
with  one  long  breath — that  was  all.  Passing  the 
Pine  slowly,  she  stopped  and  turned  back  to  it, 
unclasping  the  necklace  from  her  throat.  With 

382 


THE  TRAIL  OF  THE  LONESOME  PINE 

trembling  fingers  she  detached  from  it  the  little 
luck-piece  that  Hale  had  given  her — the  tear  of  a 
fairy  that  had  turned  into  a  tiny  cross  of  stone 
when  a  strange  messenger  brought  to  the  Virginia 
valley  the  story  of  the  crucifixion.  The  penknife 
was  still  in  her  pocket,  and,  opening  it,  she  went 
behind  the  Pine  and  dug  a  niche  as  high  and  as 
deep  as  she  could  toward  its  soft  old  heart.  In 
there  she  thrust  the  tiny  symbol,  whispering: 

"I  want  all  the  luck  you  could  ever  give  me, 
little  cross — for  him"  Then  she  pulled  the  fibres 
down  to  cover  it  from  sight  and,  crossing  her 
hands  over  the  opening,  she  put  her  forehead 
against  them  and  touched  her  lips  to  the  tree. 

"Keep  it  safe,  old  Pine."  Then  she  lifted  her 
face — looking  upward  along  its  trunk  to  the  blue 
sky.  "And  bless  him,  dear  God,  and  guard  him 
evermore."  She  clutched  her  heart  as  she  turned, 
and  she  was  clutching  it  when  she  passed  into  the 
shadows  below,  leaving  the  old  Pine  to  whisper, 
when  he  passed,  her  love. 

Next  day  the  word  went  round  to  the  clan  that 
the  Tollivers  would  start  in  a  body  one  week  later 
for  the  West.  At  daybreak,  that  morning,  Uncle 
Billy  and  his  wife  mounted  the  old  gray  horse  and 
rode  up  the  river  to  say  good-by.  They  found  the 
cabin  in  Lonesome  Cove  deserted.  Many  things 
were  left  piled  in  the  porch;  the  Tollivers  had  left 
apparently  in  a  great  hurry  and  the  two  old  people 

383 


THE  TRAIL  OF  THE  LONESOME  PINE 

were  much  mystified.  Not  until  noon  did  they 
learn  what  the  matter  was.  Only  the  night  before 
a  Tolliver  had  shot  a  Falin  and  the  Falins  had 
gathered  to  get  revenge  on  Judd  that  night.  The 
warning  word  had  been  brought  to  Lonesome 
Cove  by  Loretta  Tolliver,  and  it  had  come  straight 
from  young  Buck  Falin  himself.  So  June  and  old 
Judd  and  Bub  had  fled  in  the  night.  At  that  hour 
they  were  on  their  way  to  the  railroad — old  Judd 
at  the  head  of  his  clan — his  right  arm  still  bound 
to  his  side,  his  bushy  beard  low  on  his  breast,  June 
and  Bub  on  horseback  behind  him,  the  rest  strung 
out  behind  them,  and  in  a  wagon  at  the  end,  with 
all  her  household  effects,  the  little  old  woman  in 
black  who  would  wait  no  longer  for  the  Red  Fox  to 
arise  from  the  dead.  Loretta  alone  was  missing. 
She  was  on  her  way  with  young  Buck  Falin  to  the 
railroad  on  the  other  side  of  the  mountains.  Be- 
tween them  not  a  living  soul  disturbed  the  dead 
stillness  of  Lonesome  Cove. 


384 


XXXII 

A  LL  winter  the  cabin  in  Lonesome  Cove  slept 
"*•  ^-  through  rain  and  sleet  and  snow,  and  no  foot 
passed  its  threshold.  Winter  broke,  floods  came 
and  warm  sunshine.  A  pale  green  light  stole 
through  the  trees,  shy,  ethereal  and  so  like  a  mist 
that  it  seemed  at  any  moment  on  the  point  of 
floating  upward.  Colour  came  with  the  wild 
flowers  and  song  with  the  wood-thrush.  Squirrels 
played  on  the  tree-trunks  like  mischievous  chil- 
dren, the  brooks  sang  like  happy  human  voices 
through  the  tremulous  underworld  and  wood- 
peckers hammered  out  the  joy  of  spring,  but  the 
awakening  only  made  the  desolate  cabin  lonelier 
still.  After  three  warm  days  in  March,  Uncle 
Billy,  the  miller,  rode  up  the  creek  with  a  hoe  over 
his  shoulder — he  had  promised  this  to  Hale — for 
his  labour  of  love  in  June's  garden.  Weeping 
April  passed,  May  came  with  rosy  face  uplifted,  and 
with  the  birth  of  June  the  laurel  emptied  its  pink- 
flecked  cups  and  the  rhododendron  blazed  the 
way  for  the  summer's  coming  with  white  stars. 

Back  to  the  hills  came  Hale  then,  and  with  all 
their  rich  beauty  they  were  as  desolate  as  when  he 
left  them  bare  with  winter,  for  his  mission  had 
miserably  failed. 

385 


THE  TRAIL  OF  THE  LONESOME  PINE 

His  train  creaked  and  twisted  around  the 
benches  of  the  mountains,  and  up  and  down 
ravines  into  the  hills.  The  smoke  rolled  in  as 
usual  through  the  windows  and  doors.  There  was 
the  same  crowd  of  children,  slatternly  women  and 
tobacco-spitting  men  in  the  dirty  day-coaches, 
and  Hale  sat  among  them — for  a  Pullman  was  no 
longer  attached  to  the  train  that  ran  to  the  Gap. 
As  he  neared  the  bulk  of  Powell's  mountain  and 
ran  along  its  mighty  flank,  he  passed  the  ore- 
mines.  At  each  one  the  commissary  was  closed, 
the  cheap,  dingy  little  houses  stood  empty  on  the 
hillsides,  and  every  now  and  then  he  would  see  a 
tipple  and  an  empty  car,  left  as  it  was  after  dump- 
ing its  last  load  of  red  ore.  On  the  right,  as  he 
approached  the  station,  the  big  furnace  stood  like 
a  dead  giant,  still  and  smokeless,  and  the  piles  of 
pig  iron  were  red  with  rust.  The  same  little 
dummy  wheezed  him  into  the  dead  little  town. 
Even  the  face  of  the  Gap  was  a  little  changed  by 
the  gray  scar  that  man  had  slashed  across  its 
mouth,  getting  limestone  for  the  groaning  monster 
of  a  furnace  that  was  now  at  peace.  The  streets 
were  deserted.  A  new  face  fronted  him  at  the 
desk  of  the  hotel  and  the  eyes  of  the  clerk  showed 
no  knowledge  of  him  when  he  wrote  his  name. 
His  supper  was  coarse,  greasy  and  miserable,  his 
room  was  cold  (steam  heat,  it  seemed,  had  been 
given  up),  the  sheets  were  ill-smelling,  the  mouth 
of  the  pitcher  was  broken,  and  the  one  towel  had 


TOE  TRAIL  OF  THE  LONESOME  PINE 

seen  much  previous  use.  But  the  water  was  the 
same,  as  was  the  cool,  pungent  night-air — both 
blessed  of  God — and  they  were  the  sole  comforts 
that  were  his  that  night. 

The  next  day  it  was  as  though  he  were  arrang- 
ing his  own  funeral,  with  but  little  hope  of  a  resur- 
rection. The  tax-collector  met  him  when  he  came 
downstairs — having  seen  his  name  on  the  register. 

"You  know,"  he  said,  "I'll  have  to  add  5  per 
cent,  next  month."  Hale  smiled. 

"That  won't  be  much  more,"  he  said,  and  the 
collector,  a  new  one,  laughed  good-naturedly  and 
with  understanding  turned  away.  Mechanically 
he  walked  to  the  Club,  but  there  was  no  club — 
then  on  to  the  office  of  The  Progress — the  paper 
that  was  the  boast  of  the  town.  The  Progress  was 
defunct  and  the  brilliant  editor  had  left  the  hills. 
A  boy  with  an  ink-smeared  face  was  setting  type 
and  a  pallid  gentleman  with  glasses  was  languidly 
working  a  hand-press.  A  pile  of  fresh-smelling 
papers  lay  on  a  table,  and  after  a  question  or  two 
he  picked  up  one.  Two  of  its  four  pages  were 
covered  with  announcements  of  suits  and  sales  to 
satisfy  judgments — the  printing  of  which  was  the 
raison  d'etre  of  the  noble  sheet.  Down  the  column 
his  eye  caught  John  Hale  et  al.  John  Hale  et  al., 
and  he  wondered  why  "the  others"  should  be  so 
persistently  anonymous.  There  was  a  cloud  of 
them — thicker  than  the  smoke  of  coke-ovens.  He 
had  breathed  that  thickness  for  a  long  time,  but 

387 


THE  TRAIL  OF  THE  LONESOME  PINE 

he  got  a  fresh  sense  of  suffocation  now.  Toward 
the  post-office  he  moved.  Around  the  corner  he 
came  upon  one  of  two  brothers  whom  he  remem- 
bered as  carpenters.  He  recalled  his  inability  once 
to  get  that  gentleman  to  hang  a  door  for  him.  He 
was  a  carpenter  again  now  and  he  carried  a  saw 
and  a  plane.  There  was  grim  humour  in  the  situa- 
tion. The  carpenter's  brother  had  gone — and  he 
himself  could  hardly  get  enough  work,  he  said,  to 
support  his  family. 

"Coin*  to  start  that  house  of  yours  ?" 

"I  think  not,"  said  Hale. 

"Well,  I'd  like  to  get  a  contract  for  a  chicken- 
coop  just  to  keep  my  hand  in." 

There  was  more.  A  two-horse  wagon  was 
coming  with  two  cottage-organs  aboard.  In  the 
mouth  of  the  slouch-hatted,  unshaven  driver  was 
a  corn-cob  pipe.  He  pulled  in  when  he  saw  Hale. 

"Hello!"  he  shouted  grinning.  Good  Heavens, 
was  that  uncouth  figure  the  voluble,  buoyant, 
flashy  magnate  of  the  old  days  ?  It  was. 

"Sellin*  organs  agin,"  he  said  briefly. 

"And  teaching  singing-school?" 

The  dethroned  king  of  finance  grinned. 

"Sure!    What  you  doin'  ?" 

"Nothing." 

"Coin'  to  stay  long?" 

"No." 

"Well,  see  you  again.    So  long.    Git  up!" 

Wheel-spokes  whirred  in  the  air  and  he  saw  a 


THE  TRAIL  OF  THE  LONESOME  PINE 

buggy,  with  the  top  down,  rattling  down  another 
street  in  a  cloud  of  dust.  It  was  the  same  buggy 
in  which  he  had  first  seen  the  black-bearded  Sen- 
ator seven  years  before.  It  was  the  same  horse, 
too,  and  the  Arab-like  face  and  the  bushy  black 
whiskers,  save  for  streaks  of  gray,  were  the  same. 
This  was  the  man  who  used  to  buy  watches  and 
pianos  by  the  dozen,  who  one  Xmas  gave  a  present 
to  every  living  man,  woman  and  child  in  the  town, 
and  under  whose  colossal  schemes  the  pillars  of  the 
church  throughout  the  State  stood  as  supports. 
That  far  away  the  eagle-nosed  face  looked  hag* 
gard,  haunted  and  all  but  spent,  and  even  now  he 
struck  Hale  as  being  driven  downward  like  a  mad- 
man by  the  same  relentless  energy  that  once  had 
driven  him  upward.  It  was  the  same  story  every- 
where. Nearly  everybody  who  could  get  away 
was  gone.  Some  of  these  were  young  enough  to 
profit  by  the  lesson  and  take  surer  root  elsewhere 
— others  were  too  old  for  transplanting,  and  of 
them  would  be  heard  no  more.  Others  stayed  for 
the  reason  that  getting  away  was  impossible. 
These  were  living,  visible  tragedies — still  hopeful, 
pathetically  unaware  of  the  leading  parts  they 
were  playing,  and  still  weakly  waiting  for  a  better 
day  or  sinking,  as  by  gravity,  back  to  the  old 
trades  they  had  practised  before  the  boom.  A 
few  sturdy  souls,  the  fittest,  survived — undis- 
mayed. Logan  was  there — lawyer  for  the  rail- 
road and  the  coal-company.  MacFarlan  was  a 

3*9 


THE  TRAIL  OF  THE  LONESOME  PINE 

judge,  and  two  or  three  others,  too,  had  come 
through  unscathed  in  spirit  and  undaunted  in 
resolution — but  gone  were,  the  young  Bluegrass 
Kentuckians,  the  young  Tide-water  Virginians, 
the  New  England  school-teachers,  the  bankers, 
real-estate  agents,  engineers;  gone  the  gamblers, 
the  wily  Jews  and  the  vagrant  women  that  fringe 
the  incoming  tide  of  a  new  prosperity — gone — all 
gone! 

Beyond  the  post-office  he  turned  toward  the 
red-brick  house  that  sat  above  the  mill-pond. 
Eagerly  he  looked  for  the  old  mill,  and  he  stopped 
in  physical  pain.  The  dam  had  been  torn  away, 
the  old  wheel  was  gone  and  a  caved-in  roof  and 
supporting  walls,  drunkenly  aslant,  were  the  only 
remnants  left.  A  red-haired  child  stood  at  the  gate 
before  the  red-brick  house  and  Hale  asked  her  a 
question.  The  little  girl  had  never  heard  of  the 
Widow  Crane.  Then  he  walked  toward  his  old 
office  and  bedroom.  There  was  a  voice  inside  his 
old  office  when  he  approached,  a  tall  figure  filled 
the  doorway,  a  pair  of  great  goggles  beamed  on 
him  like  beacon  lights  in  a  storm,  and  the  Hon. 
Sam  Budd's  hand  and  his  were  clasped  over  the  gate. 

"It's  all  over,  Sam." 

"Don't  you  worry — come  on  in." 

The  two  sat  on  the  porch.  Below  it  the  dimpled 
river  shone  through  the  rhododendrons  and  with 
his  eyes  fixed  on  it,  the  Hon.  Sam  slowly  ap- 
proached the  thought  of  each. 

390 


THE  TRAIL  OF  THE  LONESOME  PINE 

"The  old  cabin  in  Lonesome  Cove  is  just  as 
the  Tollivers  left  it." 

"None  of  them  ever  come  back?"  Budd 
shook  his  head, 

"No,  but  one's  comin' — Dave." 

"Dave!" 

"  Yes,  an'  you  know  what  for." 

"I  suppose  so,"  said  Hale  carelessly.  "Did 
you  send  old  Judd  the  deed  ?" 

"  Sure — along  with  that  fool  condition  of  yours 
that  June  shouldn't  know  until  he  was  dead  or  she 
married.  I've  never  heard  a  word." 

"Do  you  suppose  he'll  stick  to  the  condition  ?" 

"He  has  stuck,"  said  the  Hon.  Sam  shortly; 
"otherwise  you  would  have  heard  from  June." 

"  I'm  not  going  to  be  here  long,"  said  Hale. 

"Where  you  goin'?" 

"I  don't  know."    Budd  puffed  his  pipe. 

"Well,  while  you  are  here,  you  want  to  keep 
your  eye  peeled  for  Dave  Tolliver.  I  told  you  that 
the  mountaineer  hates  as  long  as  he  remembers, 
and  that  he  never  forgets.  Do  you  know  that 
Dave  sent  his  horse  back  to  the  stable  here  to  be 
hired  out  for  his  keep,  and  told  it  right  and  left 
that  when  you  came  back  he  was  comin',  too, 
and  he  was  goin'  to  straddle  that  horse  until  he  found 
you,  and  then  one  of  you  had  to  die  ?  How  he  found 
out  you  were  comin'  about  this  time  I  don't  know, 
but  he  has  sent  word  that  he'll  be  here.  Looks 
like  he  hasn't  made  much  headway  with  June." 

391 


THE  TRAIL  OF  THE  LONESOME  PINE 

"I'm  not  worried. " 

"Well,  you  better  be,"  said  Budd  sharply. 

"Did  Uncle  Billy  plant  the  garden  ?" 

"Flowers  and  all,  just  as  June  always  had  'em. 
He's  always  had  the  idea  that  June  would  come 
back." 

"Maybe  she  will." 

"Not  on  your  life.  She  might  if  you  went  out 
there  for  her." 

Hale  looked  up  quickly  and  slowly  shook  his 
head. 

"Look  here,  Jack,  you're  seein'  things  wrong. 
You  can't  blame  that  girl  for  losing  her  head  after 
you  spoiled  and  pampered  her  the  way  you  did. 
And  with  all  her  sense  it  was  mighty  hard  for  her 
to  understand  your  being  arrayed  against  her 
flesh  and  blood — law  or  no  law.  That's  mountain 
nature  pure  and  simple,  and  it  comes  mighty  near 
bein'  human  nature  the  world  over.  You  never 
gave  her  a  square  chance." 

"You  know  what  Uncle  Billy  said  ?" 

"  Yes,  an'  I  know  Uncle  Billy  changed  his  mind. 
Go  after  her." 

"No,"  said  Hale  firmly.  "It'll  take  me  ten 
years  to  get  out  of  debt.  I  wouldn't  now  if  I 
could — on  her  account." 

"Nonsense."    Hale  rose. 

"I'm  going  over  to  take  a  look  around  and  get 
some  things  I  left  at  Uncle  Billy's  and  then — me 
for  the  wide,  wide  world  again." 

392 


THE  TRAIL  OF  THE  LONESOME  PINE 

The  Hon.  Sam  took  off  his  spectacles  to  wipe 
them,  but  when  Hale's  back  was  turned,  his  hand- 
kerchief went  to  his  eyes: 

"  Don't  you  worry,  Jack." 

"All  right,  Sam." 

An  hour  later  Hale  was  at  the  livery  stable  for 
a  horse  to  ride  to  Lonesome  Cove,  for  he  had  sold 
his  big  black  to  help  out  expenses  for  the  trip  to 
England.  Old  Dan  Harris,  the  stableman,  stood 
in  the  door  and  silently  he  pointed  to  a  gray  horse 
in  the  barn-yard. 

"You  know  that  hoss  ?" 

"Yes." 

"  You  know  whut's  he  here  fer  ? " 

"I've  heard." 

"Well,  I'm  lookin'  fer  Dave  every  day  now." 

"Well,  maybe  I'd  better  ride  Dave's  horse 
now,"  said  Hale  jestingly. 

"  I  wish  you  would,"  said  old  Dan. 

"No,"  said  Hale,  "if  he's  coming,  I'll  leave  the 
horse  so  that  he  can  get  to  me  as  quickly  as  pos- 
sible. You  might  send  me  word,  Uncle  Dan, 
ahead,  so  that  he  can't  waylay  me." 

"I'll  do  that  very  thing,"  said  the  old  man 
seriously. 

"I  was  joking,  Uncle  Dan." 

"But  I  ain't." 

The  matter  was  out  of  Hale's  head  before  he  got 
through  the  great  Gap.  How  the  memories 
thronged  of  June — June — June! 

393 


THE  TRAIL  OF  THE  LONESOME  PINE 

"  You  didnt  give  her  a  chance." 

That  was  what  Budd  said^  Well,  had  he  given 
her  a  chance  ?  Why  shouldn't  he  go  to  her  and 
give  her  the  chance  now  ?  He  shook  his  shoulders 
at  the  thought  and  laughed  with  some  bitterness. 
He  hadn't  the  car-fare  for  half-way  across  the  con- 
tinent— and  even  if  he  had,  he  was  a  promising 
candidate  for  matrimony! — and  again  he  shook  his 
shoulders  and  settled  his  soul  for  his  purpose.  He 
would  get  his  things  together  and  leave  those  hills 
forever. 

How  lonely  had  been  his  trip — how  lonely  was 
the  God-forsaken  little  town  behind  him!  How 
lonely  the  road  and  hills  and  the  little  white  clouds 
in  the  zenith  straight  above  him — and  how  un- 
speakably lonely  the  green  dome  of  the  great  Pine 
that  shot  into  view  from  the  north  as  he  turned  a 
clump  of  rhododendron  with  uplifted  eyes.  Not 
a  breath  of  air  moved.  The  green  expanse  about 
him  swept  upward  like  a  wave — but  unflecked, 
motionless,  except  for  the  big  Pine  which,  that  far 
away,  looked  like  a  bit  of  green  spray,  spouting  on 
its  very  crest. 

"Old  man,"  he  muttered,  "you  know — you 
know."  And  as  to  a  brother  he  climbed  toward  it. 

"No  wonder  they  call  you  Lonesome,"  he  said 
as  he  went  upward  into  the  bright  stillness,  and 
when  he  dropped  into  the  dark  stillness  of  shadow 
and  forest  gloom  on  the  other  side  he  said  again : 

"My  God,  no  wonder  they  call  you  Lonesome." 

394 


THE  TRAIL  OF  THE  LONESOME  PINE 

And  still  the  memories  of  June  thronged — at 
the  brook — at  the  river — and  when  he  saw  the 
smokeless  chimney  of  the  old  cabin,  he  all  but 
groaned  aloud.  But  he  turned  away  from  it,  un- 
able to  look  again,  and  went  down  the  river 
toward  Uncle  Billy's  mill. 

Old  Hon  threw  her  arms  around  him  and  kissed 
him. 

"  John,"  said  Uncle  Billy,  "  I've  got  three  hun- 
dred dollars  in  a  old  yarn  sock  under  one  of  them 
hearthstones  and  its  yourn.  Ole  Hon  says  so  too." 

Hale  choked. 

"I  want  ye  to  go  to  June.  Dave'll  worry  her 
down  and  git  her  if  you  don't  go,  and  if  he  don't 
worry  her  down,  he'll  come  back  an'  try  to  kill  ye. 
I've  always  thought  one  of  ye  would  have  to  die 
fer  that  gal,  an*  I  want  it  to  be  Dave.  You  two 
have  got  to  fight  it  out  some  day,  and  you  mought 
as  well  meet  him  out  thar  as  here.  You  didn't  give 
that  little  gal  a  fair  chance,  John,  an'  I  want  you 
to  go  to  June." 

"No,  I  can't  take  your  money,  Uncle  Billy — 
God  bless  you  and  old  Hon — I'm  going — I  don't 
know  where — and  I'm  going  now." 


395 


XXXIII 

/CLOUDS  were  gathering  as  Hale  rode  up  the 
^-^  river  after  telling  old  Hon  and  Uncle  Billy 
good-by.  He  had  meant  not  to  go  to  the  cabin  in 
Lonesome  Cove,  but  when  he  reached  the  forks 
of  the  road,  he  stopped  his  horse  and  sat  in  inde- 
cision with  his  hands  folded  on  the  pommel  of  his 
saddle  and  his  eyes  on  the  smokeless  chimney. 
The  memories  tugging  at  his  heart  drew  him  irre- 
sistibly on,  for  it  was  the  last  time.  At  a  slow  walk 
he  went  noiselessly  through  the  deep  sand  around 
the  clump  of  rhododendron.  The  creek  was  clear 
as  crytsal  once  more,  but  no  geese  cackled  and  no 
dog  barked.  The  door  of  the  spring-house  gaped 
wide,  the  barn-door  sagged  on  its  hinges,  the  yard- 
fence  swayed  drunkenly,  and  the  cabin  was  still 
as  a  gravestone.  But  the  garden  was  alive,  and  he 
swung  from  his  horse  at  the  gate,  and  with  his 
hands  clasped  behind  his  back  walked  slowly 
through  it.  June's  garden!  The  garden  he  had 
planned  and  planted  for  June — that  they  had 
tended  together  and  apart  and  that,  thanks  to  the 
old  miller's  care,  was  the  one  thing,  save  the  sky 
above,  left  in  spirit  unchanged.  The  periwinkles, 
pink  and  white,  were  almost  gone.  The  flags 

396 


THE  TRAIL  OF  THE  LONESOME  PINE 

were  at  half-mast  and  sinking  fast.  The  annun- 
ciation lilies  were  bending  their  white  foreheads 
to  the  near  kiss  of  death,  but  the  pinks  were  fra- 
grant, the  poppies  were  poised  on  slender  stalks 
like  brilliant  butterflies  at  rest,  the  hollyhocks 
shook  soundless  pink  bells  to  the  wind,  roses  as 
scarlet  as  June's  lips  bloomed  everywhere  and  the 
richness  of  mid-summer  was  at  hand. 

Quietly  Hale  walked  the  paths,  taking  a  last 
farewell  of  plant  and  flower,  and  only  the  sudden 
patter  of  raindrops  made  him  lift  his  eyes  to  the 
angry  sky.  The  storm  was  coming  now  in  earnest 
and  he  had  hardly  time  to  lead  his  horse  to  the 
barn  and  dash  to  the  porch  when  the  very  heavens, 
with  a  crash  of  thunder,  broke  loose.  Sheet  after 
sheet  swept  down  the  mountains  like  wind-driven 
clouds  of  mist  thickening  into  water  as  they  came. 
The  shingles  rattled  as  though  with  the  heavy 
slapping  of  hands,  the  pines  creaked  and  the  sud- 
den dusk  outside  made  the  cabin,  when  he  pushed 
the  door  open,  as  dark  as  night.  Kindling  a  fire, 
he  lit  his  pipe  and  waited.  The  room  was  damp 
and  musty,  but  the  presence  of  June  almost  smoth- 
ered him.  Once  he  turned  his  face.  June's  door 
was  ajar  and  the  key  was  in  the  lock.  He  rose  to 
go  to  it  and  look  within  and  then  dropped  heavily 
back  into  his  chair.  He  was  anxious  to  get  away 
now — to  get  to  work.  Several  times  he  rose  rest- 
lessly and  looked  out  the  window.  Once  he  went 
outside  and  crept  along  the  wall  of  the  cabin  to  the 

397 


THE  TRAIL  OF  THE  LONESOME  PINE 

east  and  the  west,  but  there  was  no  break  of  light 
in  the  murky  sky  and  he  went  back  to  pipe  and 
fire.  By  and  by  the  wind  died  and  the  rain  steadied 
into  a  dogged  downpour.  He  knew  what  that 
meant — there  would  be  no  letting  up  now  in  the 
storm,  and  for  another  night  he  was  a  prisoner.  So 
he  went  to  his  saddle-pockets  and  pulled  out  a 
cake  of  chocolate,  a  can  of  potted  ham  and  some 
crackers,  munched  his  supper,  went  to  bed,  and 
lay  there  with  sleepless  eyes,  while  the  lights  and 
shadows  from  the  wind-swayed  fire  flicked  about 
him.  After  a  while  his  body  dozed  but  his  racked 
brain  went  seething  on  in  an  endless  march  of  fan- 
tastic dreams  in  which  June  was  the  central  figure 
always,  until  of  a  sudden  young  Dave  leaped  into 
the  centre  of  the  stage  in  the  dream-tragedy  form- 
ing in  his  brain.  They  were  meeting  face  to  face 
at  last — and  the  place  was  the  big  Pine.  Dave's 
pistol  flashed  and  his  own  stuck  in  the  holster  as 
he  tried  to  draw.  There  was  a  crashing  report 
and  he  sprang  upright  in  bed — but  it  was  a  crash 
of  thunder  that  wakened  him  and  that  in  that 
swift  instant  perhaps  had  caused  his  dream.  The 
wind  had  come  again  and  was  driving  the  rain  like 
soft  bullets  against  the  wall  of  the  cabin  next  which 
he  lay.  He  got  up,  threw  another  stick  of  wood  on 
the  fire  and  sat  before  the  leaping  blaze,  curiously 
disturbed  but  not  by  the  dream.  Somehow  he  was 
again  in  doubt — was  he  going  to  stick  it  out  in  the 
mountains  after  all,  and  if  he  should,  was  not  the 

398 


THE  TRAIL  OF  THE  LONESOME  PINE 

reason,  deep  down  in  his  soul,  the  foolish  hope 
that  June  would  come  back  again.  No,  he  thought, 
searching  himself  fiercely,  that  was  not  the  reason. 
He  honestly  did  not  know  what  his  duty  to  her 
was — what  even  was  his  inmost  wish,  and  almost 
with  a  groan  he  paced  the  floor  to  and  fro.  Mean- 
time the  storm  raged.  A  tree  crashed  on  the 
mountainside  and  the  lightning  that  smote  it 
winked  into  the  cabin  so  like  a  mocking,  malignant 
eye  that  he  stopped  in  his  tracks,  threw  open  the 
door  and  stepped  outside  as  though  to  face  an  ene- 
my. The  storm  was  majestic  and  his  soul  went 
into  the  mighty  conflict  of  earth  and  air,  whose 
beginning  and  end  were  in  eternity.  The  very 
mountain  tops  were  rimmed  with  zigzag  fire, 
which  shot  upward,  splitting  a  sky  that  was  as 
black  as  a  nether  world,  and  under  it  the  great 
trees  swayed  like  willows  under  rolling  clouds  of 
gray  rain.  One  fiery  streak  lit  up  for  an  instant 
the  big  Pine  and  seemed  to  dart  straight  down 
upon  its  proud,  tossing  crest.  For  a  moment  the 
beat  of  the  watcher's  heart  and  the  flight  of  his 
soul  stopped  still.  A  thunderous  crash  came 
slowly  to  his  waiting  ears,  another  flash  came,  and 
Hale  stumbled,  with  a  sob,  back  into  the  cabin. 
God's  finger  was  pointing  the  way  now — the  big 
Pine  was  no  more. 


399 


XXXIV 

/TVHE  big  Pine  was  gone.  He  had  seen  it  first, 
-*•  one  morning  at  daybreak,  when  the  valley 
on  the  other  side  was  a  sea  of  mist  that  threw  soft, 
clinging  spray  to  the  very  mountain  tops — for 
even  above  the  mists,  that  morning,  its  mighty 
head  arose,  sole  visible  proof  that  the  earth  still 
slept  beneath.  He  had  seen  it  at  noon — but  little 
less  majestic,  among  the  oaks  that  stood  about  it; 
had  seen  it  catching  the  last  light  at  sunset,  clean- 
cut  against  the  after-glow,  and  like  a  dark,  silent, 
mysterious  sentinel  guarding  the  mountain  pass 
under  the  moon.  He  had  seen  it  giving  place  with 
sombre  dignity  to  the  passing  burst  of  spring,  had 
seen  it  green  among  dying  autumn  leaves,  green 
in  the  gray  of  winter  trees  and  still  green  in  a 
shroud  of  snow — a  changeless  promise  that  the 
earth  must  wake  to  life  again.  It  had  been  the 
beacon  that  led  him  into  Lonesome  Cove — the 
beacon  that  led  June  into  the  outer  world.  From 
it  her  flying  feet  had  carried  her  into  his  life — past 
it,  the  same  feet  had  carried  her  out  again.  It  had 
been  their  trysting  place — had  kept  their  secrets 
like  a  faithful  friend  and  had  stood  to  him  as  the 
changeless  symbol  of  their  love.  It  had  stood  a 

400 


THE  TRAIL  OF  THE  LONESOME  PINE 

mute  but  sympathetic  witness  of  his  hopes,  his 
despairs  and  the  struggles  that  lay  between  them. 
In  dark  hours  it  had  been  a  silent  comforter,  and 
in  the  last  year  it  had  almost  come  to  symbolize  his 
better  self  as  to  that  self  he  came  slowly  back. 
And  in  the  darkest  hour  it  was  the  last  friend  to 
whom  he  had  meant  to  say  good-by.  Now  it  was 
gone.  Always  he  had  lifted  his  eyes  to  it  every 
morning  when  he  rose,  but  now,  next  morning,  he 
hung  back  consciously  as  one  might  shrink  from 
looking  at  the  face  of  a  dead  friend,  and  when  at 
last  he  raised  his  head  to  look  upward  to  it,  an  im- 
penetrable shroud  of  mist  lay  between  them — and 
he  was  glad. 

And  still  he  could  not  leave.  The  little  creek 
was  a  lashing  yellow  torrent,  and  his  horse,  heavily 
laden  as  he  must  be,  could  hardly  swim  with  his 
weight,  too,  across  so  swift  a  stream.  But  moun- 
tain streams  were  like  June's  temper — up  quickly 
and  quickly  down — so  it  was  noon  before  he 
plunged  into  the  tide  with  his  saddle-pockets  over 
one  shoulder  and  his  heavy  transit  under  one  arm. 
Even  then  his  snorting  horse  had  to  swim  a  few 
yards,  and  he  reached  the  other  bank  soaked  to  his 
waist  line.  But  the  warm  sun  came  out  just  as 
he  entered  the  woods,  and  as  he  climbed,  the 
mists  broke  about  him  and  scudded  upward  like 
white  sails  before  a  driving  wind.  Once  he 
looked  back  from  a  "fire-scald"  in  the  woods  at 
the  lonely  cabin  in  the  cove,  but  it  gave  him  so 

401 


THE  TRAIL  OF  THE  LONESOME  PINE 

keen  a  pain  that  he  would  not  look  again.  The 
trail  was  slippery  and  several  times  he  had  to  stop 
to  let  his  horse  rest  and  to  slow  the  beating  of  his 
own  heart.  But  the  sunlight  leaped  gladly  from 
wet  leaf  to  wet  leaf  until  the  trees  looked  decked 
out  for  unseen  fairies,  and  the  birds  sang  as  though 
there  was  nothing  on  earth  but  joy  for  all  its 
creatures,  and  the  blue  sky  smiled  above  as  though 
it  had  never  bred  a  lightning  flash  or  a  storm. 
Hale  dreaded  the  last  spur  before  the  little  Gap 
was  visible,  but  he  hurried  up  the  steep,  and  when 
he  lifted  his  apprehensive  eyes,  the  gladness  of  the 
earth  was  as  nothing  to  the  sudden  joy  in  his  own 
heart.  The  big  Pine  stood  majestic,  still  un- 
scathed, as  full  of  divinity  and  hope  to  him  as  a 
rainbow  in  an  eastern  sky.  Hale  dropped  his 
reins,  lifted  one  hand  to  his  dizzy  head,  let  his 
transit  to  the  ground,  and  started  for  it  on  a  run. 
Across  the  path  lay  a  great  oak  with  a  white  wound 
running  the  length  of  its  mighty  body,  from  crest 
to  shattered  trunk,  and  over  it  he  leaped,  and  like 
a  child  caught  his  old  friend  in  both  arms.  After 
all,  he  was  not  alone.  One  friend  would  be  with 
him  till  death,  on  that  border-line  between  the 
world  in  which  he  was  born  and  the  world  he  had 
tried  to  make  his  own,  and  he  could  face  now  the 
old  one  again  with  a  stouter  heart.  There  it  lay 
before  him  with  its  smoke  and  fire  and  noise  and 
slumbering  activities  just  awakening  to  life  again. 
He  lifted  his  clenched  fist  toward  it: 

402 


THE  TRAIL  OF  THE  LONESOME  PINE 

"You  got  me  once,"  he  muttered,  "but  this 
time  I'll  get  you"  He  turned  quickly  and  deci- 
sively— there  would  be  no  more  delay.  And  he 
went  back  and  climbed  over  the  big  oak  that,  in- 
stead of  his  friend,  had  fallen  victim  to  the  light- 
ning's kindly  whim  and  led  his  horse  out  into  the 
underbrush.  As  he  approached  within  ten  yards 
of  the  path,  a  metallic  note  rang  faintly  on  the  still 
air  the  other  side  of  the  Pine  and  down  the  moun- 
tain. Something  was  coming  up  the  path,  so  he 
swiftly  knotted  his  bridle-reins  around  a  sapling, 
stepped  noiselessly  into  the  path  and  noiselessly 
slipped  past  the  big  tree  where  he  dropped  to  his 
knees,  crawled  forward  and  lay  flat,  peering  over 
the  cliff  and  down  the  winding  trail.  He  had  not 
long  to  wait.  A  riderless  horse  filled  the  opening 
in  the  covert  of  leaves  that  swallowed  up  the 
path.  It  was  gray  and  he  knew  it  as  he  knew  the 
saddle  as  his  old  enemy's — Dave.  Dave  had  kept 
his  promise — he  had  come  back.  The  dream  was 
coming  true,  and  they  were  to  meet  at  last  face  to 
face.  One  of  them  was  to  strike  a  trail  more  lone- 
some than  the  Trail  of  the  Lonesome  Pine,  and 
that  man  would  not  be  John  Hale.  One  detail  of 
the  dream  was  going  to  be  left  out,  he  thought 
grimly,  and  very  quietly  he  drew  his  pistol,  cocked 
it,  sighted  it  on  the  opening — it  was  an  easy  shot 
— and  waited.  He  would  give  that  enemy  no 
more  chance  than  he  would  a  mad  dog — or  would 
he  ?  The  horse  stopped  to  browse.  He  waited  so 

403 


THE  TRAIL  OF  THE  LONESOME  PINE 

long  that  he  began  to  suspect  a  trap.  He  with- 
drew his  head  and  looked  about  him  on  either  side 
and  behind — listening  intently  for  the  cracking  of 
a  twig  or  a  footfall.  He  was  about  to  push  back- 
ward to  avoid  possible  attack  from  the  rear,  when 
a  shadow  shot  from  the  opening.  His  face  paled 
and  looked  sick  of  a  sudden,  his  clenched  fingers 
relaxed  about  the  handle  of  his  pistol  and  he  drew 
it  back,  still  cocked,  turned  on  his  knees,  walked 
past  the  Pine,  and  by  the  fallen  oak  stood  upright, 
waiting.  He  heard  a  low  whistle  calling  to  the 
horse  below  and  a  shudder  ran  through  him.  He 
heard  the  horse  coming  up  the  path,  he  clenched 
his  pistol  convulsively,  and  his  eyes,  lit  by  an  un- 
earthly fire  and  fixed  on  the  edge  of  the  bowlder 
around  which  they  must  come,  burned  an  instant 
later  on — June.  At  the  cry  she  gave,  he  flashed  a 
hunted  look  right  and  left,  stepped  swiftly  to  one 
side  and  stared  past  her — still  at  the  bowlder.  She 
had  dropped  the  reins  and  started  toward  him, 
but  at  the  Pine  she  stopped  short. 

"Where  is  he?" 

Her  lips  opened  to  answer,  but  no  sound  came. 
Hale  pointed  at  the  horse  behind  her. 

"That's  his.  He  sent  me  word.  He  left  that 
horse  in  the  valley,  to  ride  over  here,  when  he  came 
back,  to  kill  me.  Are  you  with  him  ?"  For  a  mo- 
ment she  thought  from  his  wild  face  that  he  had 
gone  crazy  and  she  stared  silently.  Then  she 
seemed  to  understand,  and  with  a  moan  she  cov- 

404 


THE  TRAIL  OF  THE  LONESOME  PINE 

ered  her  face  with  her  hands  and  sank  weeping  in 
a  heap  at  the  foot  of  the  Pine. 

The  forgotten  pistol  dropped,  full  cocked  to 
the  soft  earth,  and  Hale  with  bewildered  eyes  went 
slowly  to  her. 

"Don't  cry," — he  said  gently,  starting  to  call 
her  name.  "Don't  cry,"  he  repeated,  and  he 
waited  helplessly. 

"He's  dead.  Dave  was  shot — out — West,"  she 
sobbed.  "I  told  him  I  was  coming  back.  He 
gave  me  his  horse.  Oh,  how  could  you  ?" 

"Why  did  you  come  back?"  he  asked,  and  she 
shrank  as  though  he  had  struck  her — but  her  sobs 
stopped  and  she  rose  to  her  feet. 

"Wait,"  she  said,  and  she  turned  from  him  to 
wipe  her  eyes  with  her  handerchief.  Then  she 
faced  him. 

"When  dad  died,  I  learned  everything.  You 
made  him  swear  never  to  tell  me  and  he  kept  his 
word  until  he  was  on  his  death-bed.  You  did  every- 
thing for  me.  It  was  your  money.  You  gave  me 
back  the  old  cabin  in  the  Cove.  It  was  always  you, 
you,  you,  and  there  was  never  anybody  else  but 
you."  She  stopped  for  Hale's  face  was  as  though 
graven  from  stone. 

"And  you  came  back  to  tell  me  that  ?" 

"Yes." 

"You  could  have  written  that." 

"Yes,"  she  faltered,  "but  I  had  to  tell  you  face 
to  face." 

405 


THE  TRAIL  OF  THE  LONESOME  PINE 

"Is  that  all?" 

Again  the  tears  were  in  her  eyes. 

"No,"  she  said  tremulously. 

"Then  I'll  say  the  rest  for  you.  You  wanted  to 
come  to  tell  me  of  the  shame  you  felt  when  you 
knew,"  she  nodded  violently — "but  you  could 
have  written  that,  too,  and  I  could  have  written 
that  you  mustn't  feel  that  way — that"  he  spoke 
slowly — "you  mustn't  rob  me  of  the  dearest  hap- 
piness I  ever  knew  in  my  whole  life." 

"I  knew  you  would  say  that,"  she  said  like  a 
submissive  child.  The  sternness  left  his  face  and 
he  was  smiling  now. 

"And  you  wanted  to  say  that  the  only  return 
you  could  make  was  to  come  back  and  be  my  wife." 

"Yes,"  she  faltered  again,  "I  did  feel  that— I 
did." 

"You  could  have  written  that,  too,  but  you 
thought  you  had  to  prove  it  by  coming  back  your- 
self." 

This  time  she  nodded  no  assent  and  her  eyes 
were  streaming.  He  turned  away — stretching  out 
his  arms  to  the  woods. 

"  God !    Not  that— no— no ! " 

"Listen,  Jack!"  As  suddenly  his  arms  dropped. 
She  had  controlled  her  tears  but  her  lips  were 
quivering. 

"No,  Jack,  not  that — thank  God.  I  came  be- 
cause I  wanted  to  come,"  she  said  steadily.  "I 
loved  you  when  I  went  away.  I've  loved  you 

406 


THE  TRAIL  OF  THE  LONESOME  PINE 

every  minute  since — "  her  arms  were  stealing 
about  his  neck,  her  face  was  upturned  to  his  and 
her  eyes,  moist  with  gladness,  were  looking  into 
his  wondering  eyes — "and  I  love  you  now — 
Jack." 

"June!"  The  leaves  about  them  caught  his  cry 
and  quivered  with  the  joy  of  it,  and  above  their 
heads  the  old  Pine  breathed  its  blessing  with  the 
name — June — June — June. 


407 


XXXV 

TTT^ITH  a  mystified  smile  but  with  no  question, 
Hale  silently  handed  his  penknife  to  June 
and  when,  smiling  but  without  a  word,  she  walked 
behind  the  old  Pine,  he  followed  her.  There  he 
saw  her  reach  up  and  dig  the  point  of  the  knife 
into  the  trunk,  and  when,  as  he  wonderingly 
watched  her,  she  gave  a  sudden  cry,  Hale  sprang 
toward  her.  In  the  hole  she  was  digging  he  saw  the 
gleam  of  gold  and  then  her  trembling  fingers 
brought  out  before  his  astonished  eyes  the  little 
fairy  stone  that  he  had  given  her  long  ago.  She 
had  left  it  there  for  him,  she  said,  through  tears, 
and  through  his  own  tears  Hale  pointed  to  the 
stricken  oak: 

"It  saved  the  Pine,"  he  said. 

"And  you,"  said  June. 

"  And  you,"  repeated  Hale  solemnly,  and  while 
he  looked  long  at  her,  her  arms  dropped  slowly 
to  her  sides  and  he  said  simply: 

"Come!" 

Leading  the  horses,  they  walked  noiselessly 
through  the  deep  sand  around  the  clump  of  rho- 
dodendron, and  there  sat  the  little  cabin  of  Lone- 

408 


THE  TRAIL  OF  THE  LONESOME  PINE 

some  Cove.  The  holy  hush  of  a  cathedral  seemed 
to  shut  it  in  from  the  world,  so  still  it  was  below 
the  great  trees  that  stood  like  sentinels  on  eternal 
guard.  Both  stopped,  and  June  laid  her  head  on 
Bale's  shoulder  and  they  simply  looked  in  silence. 

"  Dear  old  home,"  she  said,  with  a  little  sob,  and 
Hale,  still  silent,  drew  her  to  him. 

"You  were  never  coming  back  again  ?" 

"  I  was  never  coming  back  again."  She  clutched 
his  arm  fiercely  as  though  even  now  something 
might  spirit  him  away,  and  she  clung  to  him, 
while  he  hitched  the  horses  and  while  they  walked 
up  the  path. 

"Why,  the  garden  is  just  as  I  left  it!  The  very 
same  flowers  in  the  very  same  places!"  Hale 
smiled. 

"Why  not  ?    I  had  Uncle  Billy  do  that." 

"Oh,  you  dear — you  dear!" 

Her  little  room  was  shuttered  tight  as  it  always 
had  been  when  she  was  away,  and,  as  usual,  the 
front  door  was  simply  chained  on  the  outside.  The 
girl  turned  with  a  happy  sigh  and  looked  about  at 
the  nodding  flowers  and  the  woods  and  the  gleam- 
ing pool  of  the  river  below  and  up  the  shimmering 
mountain  to  the  big  Pine  topping  it  with  sombre 
majesty. 

"Dear  old  Pine,"  she  murmured,  and  almost 
unconsciously  she  unchained  the  door  as  she  had 
so  often  done  before,  stepped  into  the  dark  room, 
pulling  Hale  with  one  hand  after  her,  and  almost 

409 


THE  TRAIL  OF  THE  LONESOME  PINE 

unconsciously  reaching  upward  with  the  other  to 
the  right  of  the  door.  Then  she  cried  aloud: 

"My  key — my  key  is  there!" 

"That  was  in  case  you  should  come  back  some 
day." 

"Oh,  I  might — I  might!  and  think  if  I  had 
come  too  late — think  if  I  hadn't  come  now!" 
Again  her  voice  broke  and  still  holding  Kale's 
arm,  she  moved  to  her  own  door.  She  had  to  use 
both  hands  there,  but  before  she  let  go,  she  said 
almost  hysterically: 

"It's  so  dark!  You  won't  leave  me,  dear,  if  I 
let  you  go  ? " 

For  answer  Hale  locked  his  arms  around  her, 
and  when  the  door  opened,  he  went  in  ahead  of 
her  and  pushed  open  the  shutters.  The  low  sun 
flooded  the  room  and  when  Hale  turned,  June  was 
looking  with  wild  eyes  from  one  thing  to  another 
in  the  room — her  rocking-chair  at  a  window,  her 
sewing  close  by,  a  book  on  the  table,  her  bed  made 
up  in  the  corner,  her  washstand  of  curly  maple — 
the  pitcher  full  of  water  and  clean  towels  hanging 
from  the  rack.  Hale  had  gotten  out  the  things 
she  had  packed  away  and  the  room  was  just 
as  she  had  always  kept  it.  She  rushed  to  him, 
weeping. 

"It  would  have  killed  me,"  she  sobbed.  "It 
would  have  killed  me."  She  strained  him  tightly 
to  her — her  wet  face  against  his  cheek:  "Think — 
think — if  I  hadn't  come  now!"  Then  loosening 

410 


THE  TRAIL  OF  THE  LONESOME  PINE 

herself  she  went  all  about  the  room  with  a  caress- 
ing touch  to  everything,  as  though  it  were  alive. 
The  book  was  the  volume  of  Keats  he  had  given 
her — which  had  been  loaned  to  Loretta  before 
June  went  away. 

"Oh,  I  wrote  for  it  and  wrote  for  it,"  she  said. 

"  I  found  it  in  the  post-office,"  said  Hale,  "  and 
I  understood." 

She  went  over  to  the  bed. 

"Oh,"  she  said  with  a  happy  laugh.  "You've 
got  one  slip  inside  out,"  and  she  whipped  the  pil- 
low from  its  place,  changed  it,  and  turned  down 
the  edge  of  the  covers  in  a  triangle. 

"That's  the  way  I  used  to  leave  it,"  she  said 
shyly.  Hale  smiled. 

"I  never  noticed  that!"  She  turned  to  the  bu- 
reau and  pulled  open  a  drawer.  In  there  were 
white  things  with  frills  and  blue  ribbons — and  she 
flushed. 

"Oh,"  she  said,  "these  haven't  even  been 
touched."  Again  Hale  smiled  but  he  said  nothing. 
One  glance  had  told  him  there  were  things  in  that 
drawer  too  sacred  for  his  big  hands. 

"I'm  so  happy — so  happy." 

Suddenly  she  looked  him  over  from  head  to 
foot — his  rough  riding  boots,  old  riding  breeches 
and  blue  flannel  shirt. 

"I  am  pretty  rough,"  he  said.  She  flushed, 
shook  her  head  and  looked  down  at  her  smart 
cloth  suit  of  black. 

411 


THE  TRAIL  OF  THE  LONESOME  PINE 

"Oh,  you  are  all  right — but  you  must  go  out 
now,  just  for  a  little  while." 

"What  are  you  up  to,  little  girl  ?" 

"How  I  love  to  hear  that  again!" 

"Aren't  you  afraid  I'll  run  away?"  he  said  at 
the  door. 

"I'm  not  afraid  of  anything  else  in  this  world 
any  more." 

"Well,  I  won't." 

He  heard  her  moving  around  as  he  sat  planning 
in  the  porch. 

"To-morrow,"  he  thought,  and  then  an  idea 
struck  him  that  made  him  dizzy.  From  within 
June  cried: 

"Here  I  am,"  and  out  she  ran  in  the  last  crim- 
son gown  of  her  young  girlhood — her  sleeves 
rolled  up  and  her  hair  braided  down  her  back  as 
she  used  to  wear  it. 

"You've  made  up  my  bed  and  I'm  going  to 
make  yours — and  I'm  going  to  cook  your  supper — 
why,  what's  the  matter  ?"  Hale's  face  was  radiant 
with  the  heaven-born  idea  that  lighted  it,  and  he 
seemed  hardly  to  notice  the  change  she  had  made. 
He  came  over  and  took  her  in  his  arms: 

"Ah,  sweetheart,  my  sweetheart!"  A  spasm  of 
anxiety  tightened  her  throat,  but  Hale  laughed 
from  sheer  delight. 

"Never  you  mind.  It's  a  secret,"  and  he  stood 
back  to  look  at  her.  She  blushed  as  his  eyes  went 
downward  to  her  perfect  ankles. 

412 


THE  TRAIL  OF  THE  LONESOME  PINE 

"It  is  too  short,"  she  said. 

"No,  no,  no!  Not  for  me!  You're  mine  now, 
little  girl,  mine — do  you  understand  that?" 

"Yes,"  she  whispered,  her  mouth  trembling. 
Again  he  laughed  joyously. 

"Come  on!"  he  cried,  and  he  went  into  the 
kitchen  and  brought  out  an  axe: 

"I'll  cut  wood  for  you."  She  followed  him  out 
to  the  wood-pile  and  then  she  turned  and  went 
into  the  house.  Presently  the  sound  of  his  axe 
rang  through  the  woods,  and  as  he  stooped  to 
gather  up  the  wood,  he  heard  a  creaking  sound. 
June  was  drawing  water  at  the  well,  and  he  rushed 
toward  her: 

"Here,  you  mustn't  do  that." 

She  flashed  a  happy  smile  at  him. 

"You  just  go  back  and  get  that  wood.  I 
reckon,"  she  used  the  word  purposely,  "I've  done 
this  afore."  Her  strong  bare  arms  were  pulling 
the  leaking  moss-covered  old  bucket  swiftly  up, 
hand  under  hand — so  he  got  the  wood  while  she 
emptied  the  bucket  into  a  pail,  and  together  they 
went  laughing  into  the  kitchen,  and  while  he  built 
the  fire,  June  got  out  the  coffee-grinder  and  the 
meal  to  mix,  and  settled  herself  with  the  grinder 
in  her  lap. 

"Oh,  isn't  it  fun?"  She  stopped  grinding  sud- 
denly. 

"What  would  the  neighbours  say  ?" 

"We  haven't  any." 

413 


THE  TRAIL  OF  THE  LONESOME  PINE 

"But  if  we  had !" 

"Terrible!"  said  Hale  with  mock  solemnity. 

"I  wonder  if  Uncle  Billy  is  at  home,"  Hale 
trembled  at  his  luck.  "That's  a  good  idea.  I'll 
ride  down  for  him  while  you're  getting  supper." 

"No,  you  won't,"  said  June,  "I  can't  spare  you. 
Is  that  old  horn  here  yet  ?" 

Hale  brought  it  out  from  behind  the  cupboard. 

"I  can  get  him — if  he  is  at  home." 

Hale  followed  her  out  to  the  porch  where  she 
put  her  red  mouth  to  the  old  trumpet.  One  long, 
mellow  hoot  rang  down  the  river — and  up  the 
hills.  Then  there  were  three  short  ones  and  a 
single  long  blast  again. 

"That's  the  old  signal,"  she  said.  "And  he'll 
know  I  want  him  bad."  Then  she  laughed. 

"He  may  think  he's  dreaming,  so  I'll  blow  for 
him  again."  And  she  did. 

"There,  now,"  she  said.    "He'll  come." 

It  was  well  she  did  blow  again,  for  the  old  mil- 
ler was  not  at  home  and  old  Hon,  down  at  the 
cabin,  dropped  her  iron  when  she  heard  the  horn 
and  walked  to  the  door,  dazed  and  listening.  Even 
when  it  came  again  she  could  hardly  believe  her 
ears,  and  but  for  her  rheumatism,  she  would  her- 
self have  started  at  once  for  Lonesome  Cove.  As 
it  was,  she  ironed  no  more,  but  sat  in  the  doorway 
almost  beside  herself  with  anxiety  and  bewilder- 
ment, looking  down  the  road  for  the  old  miller  to 
come  home. 

414 


THE  TRAIL  OF  THE  LONESOME  PINE 

Back  the  two  went  into  the  kitchen  and  Hale 
sat  at  the  door  watching  June  as  she  fixed  the 
table  and  made  the  coffee  and  corn  bread.  Once 
only  he  disappeared  and  that  was  when  suddenly 
a  hen  cackled,  and  with  a  shout  of  laughter  he 
ran  out  to  come  back  with  a  fresh  egg. 

"Now,  my  lord!"  said  June,  her  hair  falling 
over  her  eyes  and  her  face  flushed  from  the  heat. 

"No,"  said  Hale.    "I'm  going  to  wait  on  you." 

"For  the  last  time,"  she  pleaded,  and  to  please 
her  he  did  sit  down,  and  every  time  she  came  to 
his  side  with  something  he  bent  to  kiss  the  hand 
that  served  him. 

"You're  nothing  but  a  big,  nice  boy,"  she  said. 
Hale  held  out  a  lock  of  his  hair  near  the  temples 
and  with  one  finger  silently  followed  the  track  of 
wrinkles  in  his  face. 

"It's  premature,"  she  said,  "and  I  love  every 
one  of  them."  And  she  stooped  to  kiss  him  on  the 
hair.  "And  those  are  nothing  but  troubles.  I'm 
going  to  smooth  every  one  of  them  away." 

"If  they're  troubles,  they'll  go — now,"  said 
Hale. 

All  the  time  they  talked  of  what  they  would  do 
with  Lonesome  Cove. 

"  Even  if  we  do  go  away,  we'll  come  back  once 
a  year,"  said  Hale. 

"Yes,"  nodded  June,  "once  a  year." 

"I'll  tear  down  those  mining  shacks,  float  them 
down  the  river  and  sell  them  as  lumber." 

415 


THE  TRAIL  OF  THE  LONESOME  PINE 

"Yes.5' 

"And  I'll  stock  the  river  with  bass  again." 

"Yes." 

"And  I'll  plant  young  poplars  to  cover  the  sight 
of  every  bit  of  uptorn  earth  along  the  mountain 
there.  I'll  bury  every  bottle  and  tin  can  in  the 
Cove.  I '11  take  away  every  sign  of  civilization, 
every  sign  of  the  outside  world." 

"And  leave  old  Mother  Nature  to  cover  up  the 
scars,"  said  June. 

"  So  that  Lonesome  Cove  will  be  just  as  it  was." 

"  Just  as  it  was  in  the  beginning,"  echoed  June. 

"And  shall  be  to  the  end,"  said  Hale. 

"And  there  will  never  be  anybody  here  but 
you." 

"And  you,"  said  June. 

While  she  cleared  the  table  and  washed  the 
dishes  Hale  fed  the  horses  and  cut  more  wood,  and 
it  was  dusk  when  he  came  to  the  porch.  Through 
the  door  he  saw  that  she  had  made  his  bed  in  one 
corner.  And  through  her  door  he  saw  one  of  the 
white  things,  that  had  lain  untouched  in  her 
drawer,  now  stretched  out  on  her  bed. 

The  stars  were  peeping  through  the  blue  spaces 
of  a  white-clouded  sky  and  the  moon  would  be 
coming  by  and  by.  In  the  garden  the  flowers 
were  dim,  quiet  and  restful.  A  kingfisher  screamed 
from  the  river.  An  owl  hooted  in  the  woods  and 
crickets  chirped  about  them,  but  every  passing 
sound  seemed  only  to  accentuate  the  stillness  in 

416 


She  made  him  tell  of  everything  that  had  happened. 


THE  TRAIL  OF  THE  LONESOME  PINE 

which  they  were  engulfed.  Close  together  they  sat 
on  the  old  porch  and  she  made  him  tell  of  every- 
thing that  had  happened  since  she  left  the  moun- 
tains, and  she  told  him  of  her  flight  from  the 
mountains  and  her  life  in  the  West — of  her 
father's  death  and  the  homesickness  of  the  ones 
who  still  were  there. 

"  Bub  is  a  cowboy  and  wouldn't  come  back  for 
the  world,  but  I  could  never  have  been  happy 
there,"  she  said,  "even  if  it  hadn't  been  for  you — 
here." 

"  I'm  just  a  plain  civil  engineer,  now,"  said  Hale, 
"  an  engineer  without  even  a  job  and — "  his  face 
darkened. 

"It's  a  shame,  sweetheart,  for  you — "  She  put 
one  hand  over  his  lips  and  with  the  other  turned 
his  face  so  that  she  could  look  into  his  eyes.  In 
the  mood  of  bitterness,  they  did  show  worn,  hol- 
low and  sad,  and  around  them  the  wrinkles  were 
deep. 

"Silly,"  she  said,  tracing  them  gently  with  her 
finger  tips,  "  I  love  every  one  of  them,  too,"  and 
she  leaned  over  and  kissed  them. 

"We're  going  to  be  happy  each  and  every  day, 
and  all  day  long!  We'll  live  at  the  Gap  in  winter 
and  I'll  teach." 

"No,  you  won't." 

"Then  I'll  teach  you  to  be  patient  and  how 
little  I  care  for  anything  else  in  the  world  while  I've 
got  you,  and  I'll  teach  you  to  care  for  nothing  else 

417 


THE  TRAIL  OF  THE  LONESOME  PINE 

while  you've  got  me.  And  you'll  have  me,  dear, 
forever  and  ever " 

"Amen,"  said  Hale. 

Something  rang  out  in  the  darkness,  far  down  the 
river,  and  both  sprang  to  their  feet.  "It's  Uncle 
Billy!"  cried  June,  and  she  lifted  the  old  horn  to 
her  lips.  With  the  first  blare  of  it,  a  cheery  halloo 
answered,  and  a  moment  later  they  could  see  a  gray 
horse  coming  up  the  road — coming  at  a  gallop, 
and  they  went  down  to  the  gate  and  waited. 

"Hello,  Uncle  Billy!"  cried  June.  The  old 
man  answered  with  a  fox-hunting  yell  and  Hale 
stepped  behind  a  bush. 

"  Jumping  Jehosophat — is  that  you,  June  ? 
Air  ye  all  right?" 

"Yes,  Uncle  Billy!"  The  old  man  climbed  off 
his  horse  with  a  groan. 

"  Lordy,  Lordy,  Lordy,  but  I  was  skeered !"  He 
had  his  hands  on  June's  shoulders  and  was  look- 
ing at  her  with  a  bewildered  face. 

"What  air  ye  doin'  here  alone,  baby  ?" 

June's  eyes  shone:  "Nothin',  Uncle  Billy." 
Hale  stepped  into  sight. 

"Oh,  ho!  I  see!  You  back  an'  he  ain't  gone! 
Well,  bless  my  soul,  if  this  ain't  the  beatenest — " 
he  looked  from  the  one  to  the  other  and  his  kind 
old  face  beamed  with  a  joy  that  was  but  little  less 
than  their  own. 

"You  come  back  to  stay  ?" 

June  nodded. 


THE  TRAIL  OF  THE  LONESOME  PINE 

"My — where's  that  horn  ?  I  want  it  right  now. 
Ole  Hon  down  thar  is  a-thinkin'  she's  gone  crazy 
and  I  thought  she  shorely  was  when  she  said  she 
heard  you  blow  that  horn.  An'  she  toP  me  the 
minute  I  got  here,  if  hit  was  you — to  blow  three 
times."  And  straightway  three  blasts  rang  down 
the  river. 

"  Now  she's  all  right,  if  she  don't  die  o'  curiosity 
afore  I  git  back  and  tell  her  why  you  come.  Why 
did  you  come  back,  baby?  Gimme  a  drink  o' 
water,  son.  I  reckon  me  an'  that  ole  hoss  hain't 
travelled  sech  a  gait  in  five  year." 

June  was  whispering  something  to  the  old  man 
when  Hale  came  back,  and  what  it  was  the  old 
man's  face  told  plainly. 

"Yes,  Uncle  Billy— right  away,"  said  Hale. 

:'Just  as  soon  as  you  can  git  yo'  license?" 
Hale  nodded. 

"An'  June  says  I'm  goin'  to  do  it." 

"Yes,"  said  Hale,  "right  away." 

Again  June  had  to  tell  the  story  to  Uncle  Billy 
that  she  had  told  to  Hale  and  to  answer  his  ques- 
tions, and  it  was  an  hour  before  the  old  miller  rose 
to  go.  Hale  called  him  then  into  June's  room  and 
showed  him  a  piece  of  paper. 

"Is  it  good  now  ?"  he  asked. 

The  old  man  pfut  on  his  spectacles,  looked  at  it 
and  chuckled: 

"Just  as  good  as  the  day  you  got  hit." 

"Well,  can't  you " 

419 


THE  TRAIL  OF  THE  LONESOME  PINE 

" Right  now!    Does  June  know  ?" 

"Not  yet.  I'm  going  to  tell  her  now.  June!" 
he  called. 

"Yes,  dear."  Uncle  Billy  moved  hurriedly  to 
the  door. 

"You  just  wait  till  I  git  out  o'  here."  He  met 
June  in  the  outer  room. 

"Where  are  you  going,  Uncle  Billy  ?" 

"Go  on,  baby,"  he  said,  hurrying  by  her,  "I'll 
be  back  in  a  minute." 

She  stopped  in  the  doorway — her  eyes  wide 
again  with  sudden  anxiety,  but  Hale  was  smil- 
ing. 

"You  remember  what  you  said  at  the  Pine, 
dear?"  The  girl  nodded  and  she  was  smiling 
now,  when  with  sweet  seriousness  she  said  again: 
"Your  least  wish  is  now  law  to  me,  my  lord." 

"Well,  I'm  going  to  test  it  now.  I've  laid  a  trap 
for  you."  She  shook  her  head. 

"And  you've  walked  right  into  it." 

"I'm  glad."  She  noticed  now  the  crumpled 
piece  of  paper  in  his  hand  and  she  thought  it  was 
some  matter  of  business. 

"Oh,"  she  said,  reproachfully.  "You  aren't 
going  to  bother  with  anything  of  that  kind  now?" 

"Yes,"  he  said.    "I  want  you  to  look  over  this." 

"Very  well,"  she  said  resignedly.  He  was  hold- 
ing the  paper  out  to  her  and  she  took  it  and  held 
it  to  the  light  of  the  candle.  Her  face  flamed  and 
she  turned  remorseful  eyes  upon  him. 

420 


THE  TRAIL  OF  THE  LONESOME  PINE 

And  you've  kept  that,  too,  you  had  it  when 

» 

When  you  were  wiser  maybe  than  you  are 


now." 


"God  save  me  from  ever  being  such  a  fool 
again."  Tears  started  in  her  eyes. 

"You  haven't  forgiven  me!"  she  cried. 

"Uncle  Billy  says  it's  as  good  now  as  it  was 
then." 

He  was  looking  at  her  queerly  now  and  his 
smile  was  gone.  Slowly  his  meaning  came  to  her 
like  the  flush  that  spread  over  her  face  and  throat. 
She  drew  in  one  long  quivering  breath  and,  with 
parted  lips  and  her  great  shining  eyes  wide,  she 
looked  at  him. 

"Now  ?"  she  whispered. 

"Now!  "he  said. 

Her  eyes  dropped  to  the  coarse  gown,  she  lifted 
both  hands  for  a  moment  to  her  hair  and  uncon- 
sciously she  began  to  roll  one  crimson  sleeve  down 
her  round,  white  arm. 

"No,"  said  Hale,  "just  as  you  are." 

She  went  to  him  then,  put  her  arms  about  his 
neck,  and  with  head  thrown  back  she  looked  at 
him  long  with  steady  eyes. 

"Yes,"  she  breathed  out  —  "just  as  you  are  — 
and  now." 

Uncle  Billy  was  waiting  for  them  on  the  porch 
and  when  they  came  out,  he  rose  to  his  feet  and 
they  faced  him,  hand  in  hand.  The  moon  had 

421 


THE  TRAIL  OF  THE  LONESOME  PINE 

risen.  The  big  Pine  stood  guard  on  high  against 
the  outer  world.  Nature  was  their  church  and 
stars  were  their  candles.  And  as  if  to  give  them 
even  a  better  light,  the  moon  had  sent  a  luminous 
sheen  down  the  dark  mountainside  to  the  very 
garden  in  which  the  flowers  whispered  like  waiting 
happy  friends.  Uncle  Billy  lifted  his  hand  and  a 
hush  of  expectancy  seemed  to  come  even  from 
the  farthest  star. 


422 


THE  UNIVERSITY  LIBRARY 
UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA,  SANTA  CRUZ 


This  book  is  due  on  the  last  DATE  stamped  below. 


JUN  21  1972 


-       7 

MAR  6    1978  fiEC'D 


100m-8,'65(F6282s8)2373 


PS1702.T7  1908 


3  2106  00206  8580 


